YOU ARE THE REASON
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@candle-wic
Pinned Post!
Hello! My name is Snail, I’m 26, and I’ve just discovered the joys of tumblr rp. He/they pronouns please! Following from my main blog @mosaic-snail and @last-knight-davinos is also me.
🩵 I’m on episode 27!
I’ll be writing Wicander, and I intend to write with others so here is my little list of boundaries:
You see Thimble's lying on the ground. Well, to be more accurate, you hear her before you see her because she's screaming and sobbing in agony. She has never been in as much pain in her life.
It's easy to see why: Her wings haven't just been crushed, they've been *ripped.*
@thimblethepixie
The fox, running around alone again, jumps up and turns in the direction of the sound - ears, then head, then the rest of the body. He leaps over a small patch of dense leafy plants and finds the sourse.
You feel the dry, textured nose nuge your arm, then hear sad, quiet whimper - the sound is ever so slightly off, hence the fact that Pincushion is undead. His ears drop,head is a bit tilted, and he gets as low to the ground as he can. He seems worried, from what little you can tell looking at the body language.
Thimble's sobs subside slightly when she feels Pin's nose against her arm.
"Where'd you come from?" she manages to say. She reaches out to pet Pin, her hand slowly stroking the fox. She doesn't know what's going on. One minute, she was flying around, the next she was being grabbed, and when she tried to fly away, her wings ripped, and she crashed onto the floor.
She gets to a seated position, which goes okay-ish. When she tries to stand, a sudden pain shoots up her back, and she falls back down with a gasp.
Pin leanes into the touch, makes another whiny sound. He licks the hand, with his dry, rubbery tounge. Hearing the question, he tilts his head in the other direction, then jumps, to nod behind himself, in the vague direction of the city. He lays down on the ground, offering Thimble his back.
Thimble looked beyond Pin to the city. Maybe her friends would be there to help her. Or maybe that guy would be there. Either way, she had to go back.
She looked at Pin lying down and knew instantly what was going on. She had ridden Pin a few times, and those times had been fun. But this time, it was for safety, not pleasure. Still, she was ready.
She climbed on Pin, the muscles in her wings and back twinging, and whispered,
"We're gonna go find help." It was rare for her to admit she needed help (except for size-related things), but this was another matter entirely.
Pin stood at his full (a bit unimpressive) height, and run as carefully as he could towards the city. You had to duck couple times under huge ivy leaves, arched tree roots and low branches of bushes. Two small creeks the fox crossed sprinkled you both with cold water and then you experienced squeezing through a hole in the city wall, where a thin block was missing.
Pincushion stopped at the small street where you were and shaked his head so hard his ears flopped from side to side, then took off into a series of alleyways. Sometimes crossing bigger streets, hopefully unnoticed.
Thimble held on to Pin's scarf as the fox ran through the forest. It was always kind of an exhilarating experience, but it was also a little complicated because of all the ducking. Thankfully, Thimble didn't get knocked off, no matter what Pin did.
The water wasn't that bad. In fact, the coldness of the water meant some of the pain subsided for a little bit.
She looked around when Pin stopped. Had someone seen them? Thankfully, nobody had really noticed the fox galloping around with a pixie on its back, even if the pixie's wings looked a bit unusual.
Her back still hurt, but holding on to Pin and feeling all of those familiar movements seemed to help a bit.
While going across one of the streets, Thimble managed to catch a glimpse of someone familiar. Thankfully, the next alley took them in a kind of semi-circle, so she managed to get another look. Yep, someone familiar, alright.
"What do you say, Pin. Think we'll get help over there?" she said, as she steered the fox over.
( @candle-wic or anyone who wants to)
Wicander was not often a man in need of solitude, but there was only so much fussing and scheming he could take before a nice walk through the city became a desperate need. As scion of House Halovar, he had never the time nor motive to wander down side alleys of distant parts of the city. Now, places he might have called dim, dingy, disgusting—well they were still a bit grimy, but recently he had taken a liking to a little bit of dirt, of mess.
When the padding of paws stopped by his feet, Wicander turned to coo at him. “Pincushion, darling, how are-“ At the sight of gore his voice broke off with a bit of a whimper. “Thimble!” A horrified whisper. He dropped to his knees on the cobblestone, hands outstretched.
((Hi!! Wanna take turns? If so then @yip-pincushion tag you’re it!
@candle-wic
“Human? Of course,” He gaze fell to the floor as he realized his automatic response may not be true. “I mean, I think so. I’ve never had a reason to doubt that but, there’s so much I’ve never doubted that- Yes. I don’t know. I think so.”
At the offer his eyes light up with hope, washing away the doubt coloring his thoughts. “Please.” It’s a simple answer, earnest trust shining through his voice.
[ Continued from here ; General thread TW for experiments ;) ]
Raising his eyebrow, Occtis watched as Wicander fumbled with his response. He understood, to some extent, that uncertainty and doubt. The questioning and worries. A bit more than slightly frustrated, Occtis huffed a sigh, the sound coming out almost like a wheeze that Occtis very acutely ignored. Damn force of habit. “That’s fine,” he said, his voice tight and not necessarily kind. “We’ll just say yes.” It was a simple answer to go with, but it was also more likely than not that Halovar’s mother was human. Occtis didn’t know much about her himself, but he knew the culture of the Sundered Houses well enough to assume.
Occtis stared back at Wick, eyes unblinking and a sickly shade of green. He had a mixture of feelings at seeing this. Halovar was so… willing. So eager. At the same time, Occtis understood just why the Candescent Creed’s facade worked so easily with this guy, and he felt bad. He felt bad that his life had been so affected by his willingness to trust in people. That had to… be challenging. Still. Occtis pushed that line of thought away.
He was a scholar, a wizard, and he knew how best to approach something unknown like this. “Alright. Yeah. Uh.” He considered a few things for a second. Already, his mind was going over the different ways to approach this. Reactivity was quite the fun thing to test, after all. Occtis rolled up his sleeves. “Could you– could you tell me about the times when your wings.. Appear? Materialize?”
A single nod as Wicander agreed to the Command spell. Occtis had no idea if it was going to work with how tricky the spell could be, and he did not know if Wic would have a similar reaction as he did with Calm Emotions. It was in no way that Occtis blamed Wicander for the reaction. It was clear something triggered it, something neither of them had expected or even thought could happen. He had been able to feel Pin, just faintly, while he had remained outside the door. Beyond the drive for attention, the fox had wanted to provide a distraction, a move Occtis himself was familiar with. And apart from his cuteness, as well as his stupidity, even with his slightly affected senses from his short period of death, Pincushion had a way to detect when a distraction was needed. The fox could smell that fear, that emotion and seemed to respond in the best way he could.
“I have enough energy for another spell or two, maybe more, depending. I’m fine to continue as long as you are,” Occtis responded. A crash after such heavy emotions wasn’t surprising, though Occtis still needed to remind himself that people needed rest and needed it at regular hours of the night. “We can reconvene after the, uh, the next spell, if you want? See how you are feeling then.”
“Um. Let me know if you want the spell stopped. If something goes wrong, it may not be as easy to communicate, but a wave or a ‘stop’ should be enough.” He had options for which command to give. None of them seemed to provide a guaranteed result, so he would have to consider and choose wisely.
“That sounds like an excellent plan.”With no experience with this type of magic, Wic had very little idea how reliably this might work for him. Every new spell could be the spell that let him understand himself, that revealed his wings in a burst of holy light in front of someone who could actually examine them and tell him what in the world was going on with his magic.
Wicander Halovar was by no means a learned man, but he was studious. He knew the best way to learn was to trust the expert at hand. “Of course. Anything odd, and I’ll let you know immediately.”
“I should also tell you, my wings—they just sort of go away on their own after a while. So, you needn’t worry about finding a way to dismiss them once they appear,” He cut off another yawn with the shake of his head. “Ah, unless that’s something you’d like to study. I know you wizard types are curious folk.” He added that last part with a bit of a lilting tone. It was a gentle prodding. Did Occtis enjoy a bit of teasing?
An excellent plan, Wicander called it. Maybe. But Occtis knew it was one with many faults. Command had many, many ways that it could go wrong. The singular word element of the spell made it very challenging to properly convey the intent behind the magic, so Occtis would need to be very careful with what he chose.
“Good,” Occtis agreed. “Another reaction would not be, uh, much of an issue if it did come to be, but we’ll…. do what we can to avoid that.” For both our sakes went unsaid afterwards. Occtis had little idea how to comfort people, let alone another Sundered House member like Wicander.
That would make sense. He didn’t know much about humans with wings, but considering the fact that Wic did not know how to bring his wings out, and the fact that they weren’t currently, obviously on his back, meant they likely disappeared on his own. Or, at least, Occtis would’ve hoped that Wicander would mention being able to make his wings go away but having trouble bringing them out. “Ah, that’s- that’s okay. A few moments should be enough for me to get some kind of understanding for what they are. But, uh, if you want them to be out more, we could explore that later?”
His hands busy attending Pincushion’s insistence, Wicander nodded with a bit of a shrug. “I think that’s a perfectly fine idea. The more we learn, the better, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t mind a bit of prodding.” So the wizard took his teasing a bit literally, that was alright, it’s not like he didn’t mean it.
There was a bit of nervousness, tempered by the fox and the seemingly genuine care for his wellbeing from the late lord. It was subtle, but he hadn’t gotten a lot of that recently and it helped him feel more secure. “So you’re going to just tell my wings to manifest, and then they’ll just—poof?” He made an unfurling motion with one hand.
“Prodding it is,”; Occtis agreed, before adding “slowly, of course” as a point of confirmation that he did want to rush Wicander into anything, especially not exerting him completely. Not all at once.
Occtis nodded as Pincushion nudged back at Wic’s hand, chittering quietly at the successful attempt for attention. “In theory, yes. I’m confined to one word so, like I mentioned, there is a chance it won’t work or there will be some kind of misinterpretation, but I’m hoping not. And, then, yes, they should.. Uh, poof.”
"Does that sound, ah, alright?"
His attention was momentarily stolen from him as the little fox in his lap nudged against his hand. “Oh, are we not talking enough about you?” He laughed, using both hands to give the poor thing all the attention he needed. “Poor Pincushion, saddest fox in the world. Never been pet in his whole life, clearly.” He shook his head at Occtis with a smile, making the joke clear. A fox as friendly and tame as this was clearly well loved and cared for. No wonder Thimble was fond of this gentleman.
Ugh, how he missed Thimble; the whole group. But there was good reason to go off on his own, and this conversation was proof. He needed to learn about himself, about the world.
“That sounds perfectly alright, Occtis.” Occtis, Occtis. Yes, wouldn’t want to be rude again. “I’m ready when you are.”
If Thimble were here, would she approve of them working together like this? Certainly she wouldn’t have let him forget the young lord’s name.
Wicander smiled down at the little creature in his lap. Maybe she would sit right on Pincushion’s head, between his fuzzy mismatched ears, and give him plenty of scritches. That would be adorable—oh but she hated being called adorable, he wouldn’t want to irritate her again—
@candle-wic asked me for a Wicander/Victor moodboard!
“There you are, dear one,” Talon murmured, seeing where Wic was sprawled on the forest floor. Rather than tripping on a branch or anything of that nature, he seemed as if he wasn’t trying to get up, so much as he was trying to hide away. Arms did not pin him down, as perhaps he expected this night, but instead they wrapped their arms around him to haul him to his feet, allowing him to lean against their lithe frame until they were back to the hut the druid called home. Once there, Wic was deposited onto a pile of pillows and furs as Talon took a ladle to fill a cup with water from their stores. “Rest and drink. I will get you something to eat in a moment if you’re hungry.” (allexandrianrejects) ((the couple ever finally interacting on screen))
Wicander protested as Talon scooped him up from where he’d tumbled to the forest floor, insistent that he needed but a moment to recover himself. But the sparks wouldn’t clear from his eyes. He stumbled blindly alongside them, trusting they’d take him somewhere safe while he tried to calm his racing heart.
It wasn’t until he was lying down that his vision finally cleared. To his dismay, he was right back where he’d started the night. “I’m sorry Talon, I was feeling perfectly fine until suddenly—the dizziness again.” It was something he had mentioned once before, though he had chalked it up to not eating enough that morning. He couldn’t use that same excuse this time, though it wasn’t like he had a real explanation to offer. “It’s…something that comes and goes. Inconvenient. I’m sorry it interrupted our fun.” He didn’t want to worry them. Everyone worried, they offered advice and treated him like glass for a time until they realized he really was fine like he said. He had hoped to avoid that conversation here, but as he sipped at the water offered he felt he owed them some sort of reasoning as to why he’d ruined their night.
"Think nothing of it, Wic," they replied, kneeling beside him, running a hand through his hair. The slight shake of his body was noticeable under their hand, even as it seemed his vision was clearing and the dizziness was subsiding. They gave a thoughtful frown. "What I care most about is that you're alright. If you still want to play later, we can do something that wouldn't be too strenuous... it's important you rest right now."
"You've mentioned the dizziness before. When does it happen?" Talon wanted to understand, of course they did; as a druid, they knew of medicine, of conditions and how to remedy them. If they could help their lover and make life a little bit easier, they would. After a moment, they wiggled down in the furs to lay, propped up on their elbow, at his side. "What else do you feel when it happens?"
Wicander gave a hapless shrug. “Everything I thought I knew about my condition had to do with Light and Dimness. It all seems so silly now, knowing it may as well be fairytale, the things I’ve based my understanding on.”
He reached out to hold their arm, rubbing his thumb along their skin as a soothing sort of gesture. His heart still beat fast and loud in his chest, he almost felt like it was rocking him. Well that was something he could give them, at least. “My heart beats so quickly, for a very long time after. I get short of breath, dizzy, my vision taken by Dimn-“ He huffed an embarrassed laugh. “My vision gets strange, sparkly and black until there’s nothing there. It gets hard to stay upright, um…” His eyes flicked down and to the side as he concentrated on finding them useful information. Nothing had ever come of these conversations before, but Talon was so clever when it came to medicine, he wanted to give it a good, earnest try. “My thoughts stop working as well. I know my words become- like I’ve been drinking. Sometimes, anyway. For bad spells.”
Then came the placations. “It doesn’t last too long, though, it hasn’t hurt me. I know how to be careful.”
The Dough and Den is, like Murray said, more of a bakery than a tavern. The 'bar' is loaded with breads and stacks of pastries, and the scattered tables are more likely to have crumbs than half-emptied drinks. The one very quickly obvious thing to Wic, or any other tall folk entering, is that the Dough and Den is a haven for the micro minority (pun intended) of small folk in the big city. The default patron, whether gnome, halfling, dwarf or among the smaller beast folk, falls a good two heads bellow Wic's 5'11", and indeed human sized seats are in a corner against the wall, with those already set up at tables far lower. Murray, with one such chair already pulled across from her, has a coffee in one hand and a marking pen in another. She can't help but grin at seeing Wic duck through the doorwaym
Wicander’s eyes anxiously scanned the room until his eyes caught on a familiar hat, long red hair, a grin that loosened the tension in his shoulders. “Ms. Mag’Nesson!” A similar grin grew on his face. He rushed forward to greet her, hands raising to take hers—he didn’t see the hanging lantern until he’s smacked his forehead right into it. “Oh-!” He yelped, holding his forehead and reaching up to steady the swinging light fixture. “Oh, ow, oww…”
This was not the first time the waitress bussing tables had seen this exact scenario play out, and she kept her smile aimed away from the new guest so he wouldn’t cause a fuss about it. The lantern hungered for blood, and tonight it had claimed another victim.
“I could’a seen that coming from a mile away without a spell slot in sight,” Murray jokes, slapping the table as he gets closer. “Come on, come on down. Get on my level. In an effort toward friendship, you’ll notice I’m not even drinkin’.”
Immediately after, she takes the last few huge swallows of her coffee. “A triple shot off coffee, please, and a second loaf of whatever this gentleman decides. They’ve got rosemary floral bread, damn good bear bread, cheese and ham spiral buns, spinach swirl loaves, and it’s all heartier and homier than the womb itself.” The waitress gives a polite smile. “We use dwarf-milled flour from North of Timmony, which gives a distinctive texture without much changing the taste. The current special is sage and olive.”
A bit flustered, Wicander pulls out the chair across from Murray and sits, rubbing the pink mark on his forehead. He takes the teasing in good fun—it doesn’t ache too bad, more embarrassing than anything, but the pain is quickly forgotten for the sake of ordering. “Oh, sage and olive sounds just lovely right now, thank you madam.”
“Alright, and anything to drink for you, sir?” The waitress asks, jotting down their orders on a small pad of paper.
“Do you have lavender tea?”
“We sure do, sir. Our lavender we actually dry in-house, we get it fresh from a local garden.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, I’ll have that, then.”
“Alright, we’ve got two specials, one triple shot, and a lavender tea. I’ll go ahead and get that started for you!”
As she leaves, Wicander turns to Murray with excitement, bump on the head already forgotten. “It’s so good to see you, you would not believe the week I’ve had. —You look radiant, by the way, I love how you’ve done your hair.” He means it, though it’s less that she’s done something special with her appearance and more that he’s never seen her comfortable and happy before. If he realizes this, he certainly doesn’t comment on it.
"Thanks, its the rare day I get to wash it. NY curls could do with more than water and cantrips, but you know how it is."
She's pretty sure he doesn't, actually, and has an army to pamper him, but if he's approaching in good faith, so will she.
"So," she says evenly, "tell MW what's so unbelievable about your week."
He doesn’t, no, but he doesn’t want to seem uninformed in front of someone who works in academia so he gives just a smile in reply.
He lowers his voice, leaning in slightly. “Well, for starters, my family doesn’t even know I’m in the city. I’ve been going by a pseudonym—Nick—because I’m a very sneaky person now. Sort of like Thimble!” The way he says her name makes it clear he’s quite impressed by her.
"Learning to put subterfuge to practice. I like it."
The drinks arrive, and she takes a huge sip of hers. "What exactly has Nick been up to? Anyone I shouldn't mention him to?"
The tea is warm, soothing, and it smells wonderful. He takes gentle sips.
“Well, Nick has been doing a little bit of trickery, a little tiny bit of theft, and ah, getting into some admittedly quite scary battles. It turns out, when you move against the Tachonis, suddenly a lot of people are okay with killing and hurting you. Which,” he adds with a tilt of his head, “honestly I think is unbecoming.”
"Sounds like a dashing fellow, this Nick," Murray said with a saucy wink. "I hope he hasn't been caught. Otherwise we might have a repeat of dear Ol'Thjazi. We're working on establishing a safe house, Nick should know. With a very gifted young illusionist."
She gave a melodramatic sigh. "It really is a shame one of my favorite grad students and one of the Mercanade's favorite performers, Demodus Blix, is missing...I might have chosen him for the internship program we're starting with the Archenade...I DID choose Hero Daivon, though. Not the Fang sister I'd assume you were familiar with, but you're acquainted with Shadia Lloy, I would assume? How is your acting coming along?"
The elation at being called a dashing fellow is quickly culled by the reminder of just what happens to dashing roguish types in this city.
“I’ve met them both, actually!” He didn’t exactly remember which one was which, but he had great, brief impressions of each. “Though I don’t know the student you’re referring to. Is he someone I should know?”
"Well, he's not someone you should know, but maybe someday Nick might like to meet him. He's quite the showman, and very sweet. He's not someone I should know anymore either," Murray says with a sigh. "You think your week was crazy. You haven't had to literally burn body fat. Or commune with a mural. Or eat ass steak. And kiss ass with someone who sold out a friend. Or, worst of all, choose interns."
That was a lot to parse all at once, and Wic had never been great with magic or business. It didn’t sound nearly as scary as almost bleeding out twice, but he didn’t want to mention that to a friend that already seemed at her wits end. Unfortunately, he knew he was hardly following along.
“You’ll have to slow down just a bit. What was that about burning?”
"Human fat. The tachonis do magic rituals using candles made from their own relative's body fat. Have you seen how skinny they are? How many people do you think would be in one candle?" She shuddered. "Hey, you think we could get them in trouble trouble with your grandmother for appropriating candle feast or something?"
She let out a long breath full of small, nervous chuckles. "That was the night Hal and Bolaire met the end of a god and may have kind of killed the Lady of a Sundered House. Meanwhile I was having visions of death angels. We both thought our nights were crazier, and then we learned."
Wicander immediately put a hand over his mouth as he tried not to retch. “Oh, that’s awful! No no no, don’t- I don’t wanna know that. That’s- eeeugh!” He shook his head, earrings dangling, catching the light and refracting it against his jaw. “Truly the grossest House. Why is all the icky stuff Tachonis stuff?”
“And I swear the Sundered Houses are doing this on purpose—making so many moves that it’s impossible to keep track of everything, much less tell it all to each other. Teor’s brother got turned into a statue! You’d think that’d be the first thing I’d bring up, but everything is such a jumbled mess that I can’t even begin organizing the information by importance.”
“You’re tattoed in bodily fluids from a nonconsenting eternally enslaved prisoner, darling. I dare say that’s icky.” Murray leaned back. “A statue. huh. I suppose it is easier for the sundered houses to deal with resistance from immobile foes.” She sighed. “And for what it's worth, relevance is almost always more important than pure importance, anyways. Context above content.”
He grimaced, hand falling to his lap. Of all the things he could be thinking about, that was the very last on his list. The urge to scratch it out surged and he pushed it down again, that was ridiculous and an overreaction. “You’re not wrong.” He mustered.
“Ah, well if we’re going for relevance, I’d say I’m very interested in what the Creed is doing in Timmony. There’s a sickness breaking out that House Seremai seems to be helping them do outreach about—but it’s a total farce. I think they’re doing something completely untoward.”
"What, you think they're spreading the sickness themself? Ala good ol Grammy and her black bolt? Or using it for surveillance?" Murray grimaced. "People will say a lot of things if you get them feverish."
“I’m certainly not ruling it out. Unfortunately, with the Tachonis involved, I get the feeling it’s a lot more sinister than just that.” He took a long sip of his drink, worry plain on his face.
“The fact that it’s all happening in Timmony is even stranger. I think they’re plotting something, I just don’t know what.”
“Gold star, the Halovar and Tachonis are plotting something. Tell me something I don’t know.” Murray reached over and gave him a light shove. “Lighten up. These times may be unprecedented, but in a very precedented way. They’ve been pulling shit since the Shapers were still shatting.” Murray runs her finger around her glass. “I certainly wouldn’t mind a trip to Timmony. I think I get along quite fine with their nobility, if you know what I mean.”
He doesn’t, not really, but he smiles like she’s said something clever. “We might trade places, then. I’m in awful need of a proper bed, and if I’m going to confront the Creed, I may as well do it in this very city. Something tells me she won’t appreciate so many eyes on her when I pop the surprise.”
The Dough and Den is, like Murray said, more of a bakery than a tavern. The 'bar' is loaded with breads and stacks of pastries, and the scattered tables are more likely to have crumbs than half-emptied drinks. The one very quickly obvious thing to Wic, or any other tall folk entering, is that the Dough and Den is a haven for the micro minority (pun intended) of small folk in the big city. The default patron, whether gnome, halfling, dwarf or among the smaller beast folk, falls a good two heads bellow Wic's 5'11", and indeed human sized seats are in a corner against the wall, with those already set up at tables far lower. Murray, with one such chair already pulled across from her, has a coffee in one hand and a marking pen in another. She can't help but grin at seeing Wic duck through the doorwaym
Wicander’s eyes anxiously scanned the room until his eyes caught on a familiar hat, long red hair, a grin that loosened the tension in his shoulders. “Ms. Mag’Nesson!” A similar grin grew on his face. He rushed forward to greet her, hands raising to take hers—he didn’t see the hanging lantern until he’s smacked his forehead right into it. “Oh-!” He yelped, holding his forehead and reaching up to steady the swinging light fixture. “Oh, ow, oww…”
This was not the first time the waitress bussing tables had seen this exact scenario play out, and she kept her smile aimed away from the new guest so he wouldn’t cause a fuss about it. The lantern hungered for blood, and tonight it had claimed another victim.
“I could’a seen that coming from a mile away without a spell slot in sight,” Murray jokes, slapping the table as he gets closer. “Come on, come on down. Get on my level. In an effort toward friendship, you’ll notice I’m not even drinkin’.”
Immediately after, she takes the last few huge swallows of her coffee. “A triple shot off coffee, please, and a second loaf of whatever this gentleman decides. They’ve got rosemary floral bread, damn good bear bread, cheese and ham spiral buns, spinach swirl loaves, and it’s all heartier and homier than the womb itself.” The waitress gives a polite smile. “We use dwarf-milled flour from North of Timmony, which gives a distinctive texture without much changing the taste. The current special is sage and olive.”
A bit flustered, Wicander pulls out the chair across from Murray and sits, rubbing the pink mark on his forehead. He takes the teasing in good fun—it doesn’t ache too bad, more embarrassing than anything, but the pain is quickly forgotten for the sake of ordering. “Oh, sage and olive sounds just lovely right now, thank you madam.”
“Alright, and anything to drink for you, sir?” The waitress asks, jotting down their orders on a small pad of paper.
“Do you have lavender tea?”
“We sure do, sir. Our lavender we actually dry in-house, we get it fresh from a local garden.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, I’ll have that, then.”
“Alright, we’ve got two specials, one triple shot, and a lavender tea. I’ll go ahead and get that started for you!”
As she leaves, Wicander turns to Murray with excitement, bump on the head already forgotten. “It’s so good to see you, you would not believe the week I’ve had. —You look radiant, by the way, I love how you’ve done your hair.” He means it, though it’s less that she’s done something special with her appearance and more that he’s never seen her comfortable and happy before. If he realizes this, he certainly doesn’t comment on it.
"Thanks, its the rare day I get to wash it. NY curls could do with more than water and cantrips, but you know how it is."
She's pretty sure he doesn't, actually, and has an army to pamper him, but if he's approaching in good faith, so will she.
"So," she says evenly, "tell MW what's so unbelievable about your week."
He doesn’t, no, but he doesn’t want to seem uninformed in front of someone who works in academia so he gives just a smile in reply.
He lowers his voice, leaning in slightly. “Well, for starters, my family doesn’t even know I’m in the city. I’ve been going by a pseudonym—Nick—because I’m a very sneaky person now. Sort of like Thimble!” The way he says her name makes it clear he’s quite impressed by her.
"Learning to put subterfuge to practice. I like it."
The drinks arrive, and she takes a huge sip of hers. "What exactly has Nick been up to? Anyone I shouldn't mention him to?"
The tea is warm, soothing, and it smells wonderful. He takes gentle sips.
“Well, Nick has been doing a little bit of trickery, a little tiny bit of theft, and ah, getting into some admittedly quite scary battles. It turns out, when you move against the Tachonis, suddenly a lot of people are okay with killing and hurting you. Which,” he adds with a tilt of his head, “honestly I think is unbecoming.”
"Sounds like a dashing fellow, this Nick," Murray said with a saucy wink. "I hope he hasn't been caught. Otherwise we might have a repeat of dear Ol'Thjazi. We're working on establishing a safe house, Nick should know. With a very gifted young illusionist."
She gave a melodramatic sigh. "It really is a shame one of my favorite grad students and one of the Mercanade's favorite performers, Demodus Blix, is missing...I might have chosen him for the internship program we're starting with the Archenade...I DID choose Hero Daivon, though. Not the Fang sister I'd assume you were familiar with, but you're acquainted with Shadia Lloy, I would assume? How is your acting coming along?"
The elation at being called a dashing fellow is quickly culled by the reminder of just what happens to dashing roguish types in this city.
“I’ve met them both, actually!” He didn’t exactly remember which one was which, but he had great, brief impressions of each. “Though I don’t know the student you’re referring to. Is he someone I should know?”
"Well, he's not someone you should know, but maybe someday Nick might like to meet him. He's quite the showman, and very sweet. He's not someone I should know anymore either," Murray says with a sigh. "You think your week was crazy. You haven't had to literally burn body fat. Or commune with a mural. Or eat ass steak. And kiss ass with someone who sold out a friend. Or, worst of all, choose interns."
That was a lot to parse all at once, and Wic had never been great with magic or business. It didn’t sound nearly as scary as almost bleeding out twice, but he didn’t want to mention that to a friend that already seemed at her wits end. Unfortunately, he knew he was hardly following along.
“You’ll have to slow down just a bit. What was that about burning?”
"Human fat. The tachonis do magic rituals using candles made from their own relative's body fat. Have you seen how skinny they are? How many people do you think would be in one candle?" She shuddered. "Hey, you think we could get them in trouble trouble with your grandmother for appropriating candle feast or something?"
She let out a long breath full of small, nervous chuckles. "That was the night Hal and Bolaire met the end of a god and may have kind of killed the Lady of a Sundered House. Meanwhile I was having visions of death angels. We both thought our nights were crazier, and then we learned."
Wicander immediately put a hand over his mouth as he tried not to retch. “Oh, that’s awful! No no no, don’t- I don’t wanna know that. That’s- eeeugh!” He shook his head, earrings dangling, catching the light and refracting it against his jaw. “Truly the grossest House. Why is all the icky stuff Tachonis stuff?”
“And I swear the Sundered Houses are doing this on purpose—making so many moves that it’s impossible to keep track of everything, much less tell it all to each other. Teor’s brother got turned into a statue! You’d think that’d be the first thing I’d bring up, but everything is such a jumbled mess that I can’t even begin organizing the information by importance.”
“You’re tattoed in bodily fluids from a nonconsenting eternally enslaved prisoner, darling. I dare say that’s icky.” Murray leaned back. “A statue. huh. I suppose it is easier for the sundered houses to deal with resistance from immobile foes.” She sighed. “And for what it's worth, relevance is almost always more important than pure importance, anyways. Context above content.”
He grimaced, hand falling to his lap. Of all the things he could be thinking about, that was the very last on his list. The urge to scratch it out surged and he pushed it down again, that was ridiculous and an overreaction. “You’re not wrong.” He mustered.
“Ah, well if we’re going for relevance, I’d say I’m very interested in what the Creed is doing in Timmony. There’s a sickness breaking out that House Seremai seems to be helping them do outreach about—but it’s a total farce. I think they’re doing something completely untoward.”
"What, you think they're spreading the sickness themself? Ala good ol Grammy and her black bolt? Or using it for surveillance?" Murray grimaced. "People will say a lot of things if you get them feverish."
“I’m certainly not ruling it out. Unfortunately, with the Tachonis involved, I get the feeling it’s a lot more sinister than just that.” He took a long sip of his drink, worry plain on his face.
“The fact that it’s all happening in Timmony is even stranger. I think they’re plotting something, I just don’t know what.”
“Now Tyranny,” Wicander started, walking down the empty city street beside her. “I want you on your best behavior in there. We really want this man to like us.
He held up fingers as he listed, tapping each one in turn. “That means no drinking, no stealing, and no trying to scare him. Even if you think it would be funny.”
@heirtohavoc
Walking along beside Wic, Tyranny swung her arms casually at her sides, a slight bounce in her steps. Behind her, her tail swished gently, though in the approaching tighter populated space she knew to keep it close to avoid some trouble, even if maybe just wanted to see what reactions it would draw out.
She pursed her lips, frowning at the rules Wic was listing off. “But this is a bar, Wic! Aren’t you supposed to drink? To, like, fit in or something? We gotta keep our presence quiet, don’t we? Drinking would make us blend in a bit more! What if your guy– your new bestie, and honestly, I’m trying really hard not to be jealous– gets mad that we’re not drinking or, I dunno, kick us out or something like that? I heard that happened once..”
“And I don’t usually try to scare, not unless it some big bad evil guy who needs some dealing with– oh! Or someone who really needs some pounding.” Tyranny grinned wide.
Tyranny moved forward, opening up the door Wicander led her to. “C’monnn, I wanna meet this new little friend you’ve made without me.”
@allexandrianrejects
The night was late, where most people had stumbled their way home, and the ones who hadn't would soon enough be drug onto the street or into a room in the inn upstairs. ...the priest would be back— after the meeting the day before with him and Julien, he promised information and would be given information in return. Dead gods, he hated the Sundered Houses, and he was ready to let them burn.
Still, he was a little skeptical about this meeting. Wicander was incredibly... cloying. He was so good, or at least tried to be. It didn't annoy Victor, he supposed, at least not now, but it confused him. So much of this man had him off balance. He saw him as a friend. Julien, who he'd known much longer and much more intimately, was did not give that label, even if Victor would have accepted it more from him.
He wiped down the bar, eyes almost lazily on the door as it opened. His heart dropped. A demon. Pink as a tulip, a spaded tail swinging, bouncing along as she entered. Was she one of Graz'zt's, come to collect something? She could smell him from the door, he was sure. And then, Wicander was behind her, seemingly traveling with her. Fuck no. She would tell him. ...even worse than that, she had her claws in Wic, the way his patron had his claws in Victor. He winced, his eyes falling downward, but not quick enough to stop him from knocking a goblet clear off of the bar, spilling wine across the barroom floor.
@candle-wic
“You snuck up on Teor just yesterday, forgive me if I d-“ His eyes darted to the goblet, he half lunged as if he could catch it from the other side of the room. “Oh dear,” he rushed into the building and up to the bar. This type of spill stained if it wasn’t taken care of immediately. He grabbed a rag off the bar and knelt to push it up against the edge of the spill to prevent it creeping forward.
“Hello!” Slightly breathless, Wicander grinned up at the man they’d come here to meet. Then he turned to call back to the entrance, gesturing to the wall. “Tyranny, go get that mop! It’s going to set into the wood!”
@heirtohavoc
“I mean he was asking for it, but–” Tyranny paused at the sound of the goblet hitting the floor, the clank it made an unmistakable sound. For a second, she almost wished it had shattered on impact. A thousand little pieces of shards, pointed and broken. That thought, however, was broken and forgotten within an instant as something else caught her attention. A smell. Rotten and putrid, faint but familiar. Tyranny knew exactly what that smell was.
Her eyes landed on the man who had dropped the ready to be served drink. She knew him to be the source of that smell. Then, though, her gaze dropped to Wic at the sound of his voice, and it made the thing– perhaps described as her heart– drop. This was Wicander’s great, new, amazing friend? This thing reeking of demonic energy?
Tyranny thought of her sisters, her creator, and all those she knew back home.
Wic. Wic. She really, really wanted to shout a swear word, but that’d make Wicander mad of course and, perhaps, less amusingly so, further draw in the attention of the drunken patrons sitting around. Tyranny knew they didn’t want that, so she kept the rising temptation down. But fuck, Wic, of course– of course– he would fall into such an easy and obvious trap.
Something in Tyranny told her that this guy could only have bad intentions for befriending Wic. It was the only explanation. Which could mean more demonic forces would know where they are, which would be reallyyyy bad.
Tyranny’s slit yellow eyes stared ahead of her, locked on the beast that Wic called his friend. She knew, she knew, she couldn’t let this go on.
No response came to Wic’s request, not for a number of seconds, all of Tyranny’s focus on what this guy had planned for Wic. Then her eyes finally blinked, and she looked down at Wic. “Huh? Broom?”
@allexandrianrejects
"Mop," he answered her, just as dumbly, as he went from behind the bar to grab the mop in question. It was his mess and his job, after all... not that being fired from another tavern would mean the end of him. He'd find another place. He always did. Those who cared knew how to find him, and there weren't many who cared; maybe it was for the best if some who thought they cared were lost in the process. Like Wic. ...gods, not that he could walk away from the little priest without yanking the demon's claws out of him first.
For most people, the scent of the bar would be overwhelming enough. Beyond that, if they were close to Victor, they's smell spice and musk before they ever got to the smell of sulfur. Demons, however, were nearly trained to smell those claimed by their kind. If Graz'zt gave her leave, Victor would have to answer to her just the same. That became a problem if he was attempting to get Wic away.
"Show's over. If you don't work here, sleep here, or sleep with someone who works here, put your coin on the counter and get out," the warlock called to the room, receiving a few mumbles of disappointment and a chorus of whistles from the few drunken hangers-on. Soon, the bar cleared except the three of them, and the wine was nearly cleaned up. Still, there was tension in Victor's shoulders, his hands firm on his cleaning instrument, prepared to use is as a weapon with his greatsword still tucked away from him behind the bar.
@candle-wic
“You really must be more careful with the reds—you know they make such an awful mess once they seep in. There,” Wicander stood, brushing off his pants with a little satisfied hum. He held the dirtied rag out pinched between his fingers and offered it up to Tyranny. “Take care of this for me, would you please?”
“And for you,” He took a small, unassuming envelope out from his robes and handed it off to Victor. “I know you were looking for more specifics on what we wanted to know, so we came up with a list of topics of import, names of note, and questions we wanted answered. And again,” Wicander frowned, blinking at a wave of fuzz in his vision, cutting himself off. Dizzy again. He readjusted his grip on his staff. Nothing to be done about it now, and so long as he continued the conversation he was sure he could keep that under wraps. It would pass.
“Ah- I’m rude! Excuse me,” He shook his head at his own lack of manners. “Business before introductions, who am I, Kattigan? Victor,” he took Tyranny’s hand in his own and gave it a squeeze, gesturing with it. “This is my dear friend Tyranny. Tyranny, this is Victor.” He smiled at her expectantly.
@heirtohavoc
A growl almost escaped Tyranny’s throat at the simple response of “mop.”. Was he mocking her? He was definitely mocking her. Wasn’t this his job anyways? Whatever. She’d try to behave for Wic and then tell him to never, ever, ever, ever, EVER see this guy again. It might break his heart to hear, and maybe he’d send her back, but at least maybe then he’d be safe from this anomaly trying to take advantage of his trusting nature.
The demon’s eyes narrowed when the bartender called out, and, no, it was not a wince at the sudden shout, who’d even suggest such a thing? A twist of magic itched to be released. What was this guy planning? If they were alone, would he try to attack them? Separate them and take Wic away like his cover had just been blown– which, okay, it had, but still!! She had no idea how powerful this guy was, and that scared her.
Tyranny moved, stepping closer to help Wic up, only to be met with an extended wet, dripping cloth. She huffed, taking the rag, and, from behind Wicander’s back, with her eyes still glaring at the thing that Wic had found himself in the company of, promptly stuffed the rag into her back pocket.
Her attention shifted back to the one real friend she had on this plane as he grabbed her hand, a light and happy expression on his face. Oh, he had no idea how much trouble he was getting himself into, did he? Still, she kept her grip on his hand tight and maybe held on a bit too hard, but she wanted this monster to know Wicander was hers.
An incredibly poor, forced smile slowly rose up on Tyranny’s expression as she looked back to the barkeep. “Hi,” she said simply, her voice tight and even more forced than the bordering-on-snarling grin on her face.
@allexandrianrejects
The way Wicander wobbled after he got up off the floor, his eyes blinking rapidly, his hand tight on his staff... Victor's ruddy brown eyes widened, intimately familiar with the waves of nausea or lightheadedness that a demon's grip in your mind could create, if they were displeased. He'd been worried that was the truth, but this seemed to prove it. This sweet man, who had been under the thumb of religion to long, was immediately snatched up by something just as bad, if not worse. The Light could not harm him. It wasn't real. The demon who now took the wine-soaked rag from him was.
He put the mop back in its bucket, briefly going behind the bar to stow away the coin deposited by the patrons and grab three glasses and a bottle of mead. He took a moment to consider before grabbing a strong, clear spirit as well. His gaze lingered on Wic a moment, as if to check the stability of his stance, seeing how he still swayed minutely; hands full, he gestured to a round corner booth with the nod of his head. "This may take a while. Let's sit," he offered, his eyes now flickering to the pink abomination, measuring her response.
Briefly, he walked over to that table to deposit the drink and glasses, though he quickly returned to Wic when the envelope was outstretched. The half-elf took it quickly, not yet cracking the wax. Even if he had mind to, his attention was quickly diverted when he was introduced to the demon. Tyranny. Not a name he recognized of his patron's retinue— didn't rule her out from being the Prince's spawn, knowing even he didn't keep track of them all. However, all signs pointed to another layer of the Hells than the one he knew the most of. Upon seeing her sharp, forced smile, Victor gave her a tight-lipped one in return. "A pleasure to meet you," he replied, grabbing her hand before she could think. Bending at the waist in a bow, he brought her clawed hand to his lips and kissed it. An acknowledgment that he was aware of the power dynamics at play.
@candle-wic
Wicander beamed at her. He could feel in her grip that she was holding something back, holding onto him for strength of her convictions. He gave her hand a comforting squeeze, happy to be a little uncomfortable to offer her support. In the few seconds Victor was behind the bar and away from them, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “You’re doing great, I’m so proud of you.” He straightened with Victor’s eyes back on them, not wanting him to think they were leaving him out of a conversation.
He gladly took the signal to sit, though he certainly wasn’t interested in drinking tonight. Dizziness seemed to settle as he sat, scooting himself to the very back of the table so he could sit between them. His eyes lingered on the alcohol, recalling the way Tyranny had described someone being kicked out of a bar for not drinking. It seemed outlandish to consider, but perhaps there was a hint of truth, that he may take some small offense to a gift refused. The clear alcohol might be his best bet. After all, it looked fairly similar to water, maybe it would be significantly tamer than the awful stuff he had at the funeral. He could pretend it was tea.
Wicander couldn’t help the surprise on his face when Victor kissed Tyranny’s hand. What a pleasant fellow! How sweet of him. A strange feeling curled in his guy as a selfish part of him wondered why he didn’t get a kiss on the hand—was Victor flirting with her? No, no he was just being as charming as he always was. What a kind man.
@heirtohavoc
Tyranny forced her locked gaze away from the bartender as Wic spoke. For just a short moment, the protective fury inside of her that yelled to get Wic to safety melted at the expression on his face. He squeezed her hand. He was reassuring her. A second of warmth at his genuineness, before Tyranny reminded herself that Wicander was so kind that he accepted an obvious danger into his life. A part of her wished that Wic was more cautious, more aware of danger, but then again, if he had been, would he have even accepted her as an Aspirant?
The demon forced that thought away. That didn’t matter. He could trust her, and she had not a singular conscious plan to put him in harm’s way. Not out of what they’d already been doing, at least. But this guy? Vincent, or whatever it was– she wasn’t paying attention when Wic did the introductions– without a doubt had something malicious in store for Wic. And Tyranny couldn’t allow that.
The last thing she wanted was to upset Wic, but if he was in danger… Tyranny huffed, irritated at the situation. Why couldn’t things ever be easy? It was one of the many things that Tyranny didn’t understand about the material plane. Everything just needed to be as complicated as possible. She hated it.
Tyranny had to force the instinct to flinch away, and she really had to stop herself from biting this guy’s hand– though, technically, that wasn’t a rule Wic had mentioned while walking in so she could potentially follow through on that idea. Maybe if she got another opportunity to. She tried as hard as she possibly could not to let any of the distaste show on her face. Whether it worked or not, she didn’t know, nor did she really care, especially not when Victor kissed her hand. And maybe she dug her nails a bit too hard into the palm of his hand. And maybe that totally accidental and definitely unintentional move was accompanied by her nails growing sharper, just so he could feel the pierce of them against his hand.
With her jaw tight, Tyranny pulled her hand back and came to sit down at the table. A glance between the two different drinking options, and Tyranny had half a mind to request if Victor had any Yahrgraz, but she kept herself quiet, watching both Wic and Victor, waiting for any small sign of the bartender making a bad move she could point out to Wic as a reason to distrust him.
Victor felt the claws dig into his palm— there was no way he couldn't —but, he fought to keep his face as it was, expressing no sign of pain, not wanting to let her feel that he was going to grovel to her. Gods, she'd likely think he'd kneel and polish her hooves if she ordered... but as of right now, she was acting as if Wic was in charge. She was playing with him, and she was looking at Victor with that disdain, trying to make him break, because she knew he knew. Certainly she wanted to keep him in line so he wouldn't tell Wicander. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a few half moons of redness on his hand. No matter.
He slid into the booth as well, on the other side of Wic. "There's plenty of rumors floating about. I'm attempting to sort through them as best I can for validity, but the drunks are only so reliable. The amount of nobles that are missing these days is astounding... I believe that you are still included in those numbers," he said, as jovially as he could in the severity of the current scenario.
After a moment, he slid one of the glasses towards himself and took ahold of the bottle of mead. After pouring a generous amount for himself, he put it down, only to grab the clear spirit and pour a shot's worth in the glass of mead. Both bottles were put back in the middle of the table. He figured the stronger would go untouched, more so grabbing it for himself, but he decided to let the companions decide for themselves. Certainly Wic had drank at least some since their first meeting, if he'd in fact left the Creed. Both labels of the bottles had the slightest smear of red now, but he made no mention of it. No use in making a big deal out of a prick like one he got while shaving, especially if it gave satisfaction to the demon.
@candle-wic
Wicander brushed a stray lock of Tyranny’s hair back behind her shoulder as she settled in, taking her hand in his under the table to offer moral support. She didn’t normally struggle this much meeting new people, but he supposed she also was doing quite an admirable job reigning in her chaotic tendencies, behaving more politely than he had ever seen her. She was really taking this quite seriously.
He wondered for a brief moment if she would like it if he kissed her hand.
Oh dear, it really did seem like Victor expected him to drink. Well, maybe he could take a couple sips and then pass it over to Tyranny, if she didn’t steal it from him before then. He nodded his head towards her glass. “It’s alright, Tyr.”
He reached for the clear bottle, pouring it into his cup as he spoke. “Honestly the fact that you’re getting any information at all is impressive. We’ve been trying at it on the road, and goodness, people are quite sensitive to a handful of questions these days.” He filled his glass to the same level that Victor poured his own drink to—he had some vague understanding that certain glasses were to be filled to certain heights. Did that affect the taste somehow? He had no idea.
@heirtohavoc
The Dough and Den is, like Murray said, more of a bakery than a tavern. The 'bar' is loaded with breads and stacks of pastries, and the scattered tables are more likely to have crumbs than half-emptied drinks. The one very quickly obvious thing to Wic, or any other tall folk entering, is that the Dough and Den is a haven for the micro minority (pun intended) of small folk in the big city. The default patron, whether gnome, halfling, dwarf or among the smaller beast folk, falls a good two heads bellow Wic's 5'11", and indeed human sized seats are in a corner against the wall, with those already set up at tables far lower. Murray, with one such chair already pulled across from her, has a coffee in one hand and a marking pen in another. She can't help but grin at seeing Wic duck through the doorwaym
Wicander’s eyes anxiously scanned the room until his eyes caught on a familiar hat, long red hair, a grin that loosened the tension in his shoulders. “Ms. Mag’Nesson!” A similar grin grew on his face. He rushed forward to greet her, hands raising to take hers—he didn’t see the hanging lantern until he’s smacked his forehead right into it. “Oh-!” He yelped, holding his forehead and reaching up to steady the swinging light fixture. “Oh, ow, oww…”
This was not the first time the waitress bussing tables had seen this exact scenario play out, and she kept her smile aimed away from the new guest so he wouldn’t cause a fuss about it. The lantern hungered for blood, and tonight it had claimed another victim.
“I could’a seen that coming from a mile away without a spell slot in sight,” Murray jokes, slapping the table as he gets closer. “Come on, come on down. Get on my level. In an effort toward friendship, you’ll notice I’m not even drinkin’.”
Immediately after, she takes the last few huge swallows of her coffee. “A triple shot off coffee, please, and a second loaf of whatever this gentleman decides. They’ve got rosemary floral bread, damn good bear bread, cheese and ham spiral buns, spinach swirl loaves, and it’s all heartier and homier than the womb itself.” The waitress gives a polite smile. “We use dwarf-milled flour from North of Timmony, which gives a distinctive texture without much changing the taste. The current special is sage and olive.”
A bit flustered, Wicander pulls out the chair across from Murray and sits, rubbing the pink mark on his forehead. He takes the teasing in good fun—it doesn’t ache too bad, more embarrassing than anything, but the pain is quickly forgotten for the sake of ordering. “Oh, sage and olive sounds just lovely right now, thank you madam.”
“Alright, and anything to drink for you, sir?” The waitress asks, jotting down their orders on a small pad of paper.
“Do you have lavender tea?”
“We sure do, sir. Our lavender we actually dry in-house, we get it fresh from a local garden.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, I’ll have that, then.”
“Alright, we’ve got two specials, one triple shot, and a lavender tea. I’ll go ahead and get that started for you!”
As she leaves, Wicander turns to Murray with excitement, bump on the head already forgotten. “It’s so good to see you, you would not believe the week I’ve had. —You look radiant, by the way, I love how you’ve done your hair.” He means it, though it’s less that she’s done something special with her appearance and more that he’s never seen her comfortable and happy before. If he realizes this, he certainly doesn’t comment on it.
"Thanks, its the rare day I get to wash it. NY curls could do with more than water and cantrips, but you know how it is."
She's pretty sure he doesn't, actually, and has an army to pamper him, but if he's approaching in good faith, so will she.
"So," she says evenly, "tell MW what's so unbelievable about your week."
He doesn’t, no, but he doesn’t want to seem uninformed in front of someone who works in academia so he gives just a smile in reply.
He lowers his voice, leaning in slightly. “Well, for starters, my family doesn’t even know I’m in the city. I’ve been going by a pseudonym—Nick—because I’m a very sneaky person now. Sort of like Thimble!” The way he says her name makes it clear he’s quite impressed by her.
"Learning to put subterfuge to practice. I like it."
The drinks arrive, and she takes a huge sip of hers. "What exactly has Nick been up to? Anyone I shouldn't mention him to?"
The tea is warm, soothing, and it smells wonderful. He takes gentle sips.
“Well, Nick has been doing a little bit of trickery, a little tiny bit of theft, and ah, getting into some admittedly quite scary battles. It turns out, when you move against the Tachonis, suddenly a lot of people are okay with killing and hurting you. Which,” he adds with a tilt of his head, “honestly I think is unbecoming.”
"Sounds like a dashing fellow, this Nick," Murray said with a saucy wink. "I hope he hasn't been caught. Otherwise we might have a repeat of dear Ol'Thjazi. We're working on establishing a safe house, Nick should know. With a very gifted young illusionist."
She gave a melodramatic sigh. "It really is a shame one of my favorite grad students and one of the Mercanade's favorite performers, Demodus Blix, is missing...I might have chosen him for the internship program we're starting with the Archenade...I DID choose Hero Daivon, though. Not the Fang sister I'd assume you were familiar with, but you're acquainted with Shadia Lloy, I would assume? How is your acting coming along?"
The elation at being called a dashing fellow is quickly culled by the reminder of just what happens to dashing roguish types in this city.
“I’ve met them both, actually!” He didn’t exactly remember which one was which, but he had great, brief impressions of each. “Though I don’t know the student you’re referring to. Is he someone I should know?”
"Well, he's not someone you should know, but maybe someday Nick might like to meet him. He's quite the showman, and very sweet. He's not someone I should know anymore either," Murray says with a sigh. "You think your week was crazy. You haven't had to literally burn body fat. Or commune with a mural. Or eat ass steak. And kiss ass with someone who sold out a friend. Or, worst of all, choose interns."
That was a lot to parse all at once, and Wic had never been great with magic or business. It didn’t sound nearly as scary as almost bleeding out twice, but he didn’t want to mention that to a friend that already seemed at her wits end. Unfortunately, he knew he was hardly following along.
“You’ll have to slow down just a bit. What was that about burning?”
"Human fat. The tachonis do magic rituals using candles made from their own relative's body fat. Have you seen how skinny they are? How many people do you think would be in one candle?" She shuddered. "Hey, you think we could get them in trouble trouble with your grandmother for appropriating candle feast or something?"
She let out a long breath full of small, nervous chuckles. "That was the night Hal and Bolaire met the end of a god and may have kind of killed the Lady of a Sundered House. Meanwhile I was having visions of death angels. We both thought our nights were crazier, and then we learned."
Wicander immediately put a hand over his mouth as he tried not to retch. “Oh, that’s awful! No no no, don’t- I don’t wanna know that. That’s- eeeugh!” He shook his head, earrings dangling, catching the light and refracting it against his jaw. “Truly the grossest House. Why is all the icky stuff Tachonis stuff?”
“And I swear the Sundered Houses are doing this on purpose—making so many moves that it’s impossible to keep track of everything, much less tell it all to each other. Teor’s brother got turned into a statue! You’d think that’d be the first thing I’d bring up, but everything is such a jumbled mess that I can’t even begin organizing the information by importance.”
“You’re tattoed in bodily fluids from a nonconsenting eternally enslaved prisoner, darling. I dare say that’s icky.” Murray leaned back. “A statue. huh. I suppose it is easier for the sundered houses to deal with resistance from immobile foes.” She sighed. “And for what it's worth, relevance is almost always more important than pure importance, anyways. Context above content.”
He grimaced, hand falling to his lap. Of all the things he could be thinking about, that was the very last on his list. The urge to scratch it out surged and he pushed it down again, that was ridiculous and an overreaction. “You’re not wrong.” He mustered.
“Ah, well if we’re going for relevance, I’d say I’m very interested in what the Creed is doing in Timmony. There’s a sickness breaking out that House Seremai seems to be helping them do outreach about—but it’s a total farce. I think they’re doing something completely untoward.”
Victor watched the man with filament tattooed on his skin, Creed robes upon his body. A demonic master beyond chuckling at how delicious it would be to corrupt him, and yet that was hardly what he wanted to focus on tonight. He needed money, and it would be easy to swindle some rich cult leader out of some gold… either by a true transaction or by robbing him blind while he slept off drink and pleasure. Victor almost wanted to laugh himself. It was too easy.
Long fingers began to undo some of the top buttons of his shirt, leaving grey-ish pale skin and collarbones visible. He could be enough for a lost lamb for the noble, certainly, enough to need a one on one confession, personal penance… however the holy man wanted to justify it. Victor made his way over, bowing slightly to the luminescent figure, as he straightened back up, his brownish-red eyes lingered. “My lord.” He kept his voice sounding breathless on purpose. Helpless. “If you shouldst impart upon me your wisdom, I would give you anything in return.” (allexandrianrejects)
((General content warnings for the thread: Set before the events of the campaign, expect a fully indoctrinated Wicander. Also, nsfw themes! Enjoy ☀️
"It may be for the best," the half-elf replied, keeping his voice soft and unassuming. Perhaps getting the holy man alone would make him feel more at ease, to make whatever came next easier for both of them. "Thank you for offering your room for the night."
It seemed as if the flames brightened as Wicander stood, something Victor found himself unable to understand, and yet intrigued by. He followed his lead and made move to stand himself. As the key was presented towards him and he went to grab it, his fingers brushed briefly over Wicander's, his hands cold. "Of course," he replied, bowing his head again. When he turned away, a sigh of relief fell from his lips, something almost akin to a laugh.
When Wicander arrived at his room he did so with another full tray of food, two cups of water each, and a quill and ink pot he borrowed from downstairs. “I brought more food for us, I won’t have you eating only half a meal. And if anything isn’t to your liking, I have no problems finding you something else—shimmering starlight, what a tiny table. Oh, no matter.” He swept into the room, setting the tray down on the table-for-one next to the window.
“Oh dear, there’s only one chair. One moment, I’ll take care of this Victor, you go ahead and start eating. Goodness, you’re pale.” And he swept right back out of the room!
Inside of the room, Wicander had already put all his travel gear in a neat little pile at the foot of the bed. His satchel sat at the top, which contained everything he’d ever need: silver jewelry, his coin purse, his travel papers, a diary, two crisp, identical holy books, a glitter jar, and a bottle of ridiculously expensive perfume.
Victor was aware enough of the situation— one bed, one chair to the side, a small table to be used for a meal or a writing desk... but most times in a place like this, the table would be ignored. The bed and the chair were what most often got used, after all. It wasn't the worst room he'd ended up in by a long shot; this wasn't a tavern he'd ever worked for, and so it was less familiar territory, but it would do, no matter how the rest of the night went.
And the Halovar arrived like a hurricane, talking a mile a minute, presenting him with more food, more kindness he didn't quite understand. He sighed over how pale the warlock was, wanting to get him fed and watered. How strange it all was... and then his eyes drifted to the open satchel and all its glittering contents.
He wouldn't take it all; that would be much too obvious. ...but maybe this would be an assurance that he'd get something out of this ruse, even with how oblivious the cleric seemed to be. Cute enough, he'd admit, but not the most observant of men. Victor opened the drawstring leather pouch at his hip, grabbing two silver rings and a handful of the many gold coins in the coin purse. He paused upon seeing the perfume, lifting it up to his nose to smell, but decided it would be too easily missed. Closing his own bag again, he adjusted the satchel to be just as it was left before heading over towards the small table.
The perfect crime.
Wicander backed into the room with a small wooden stool hugged to his chest. He set it on the other side of the table and shut the door behind them, panting only slightly from the effort. “All set! How do you like the food? I tried to get fresh fruit but all they had were jams so I got us two to share.”
There was the barest flicker of guilt, somehow not for the stealing, but for not helping Wicander as he heard him panting from exertion just at getting the stool up the stairs. Victor likely would have been able to carry the cleric and the stool up the stairs if he’d wanted to. Likely not applicable at this point, but he supposed it was always an option, still.
“I’ve not had much. But it is good. Thank you for all of your generosity, my lord,” he replied, head bent but eyes trained on the other man. More generosity than the noble likely would have chosen, yet he was certain it wouldn’t be missed.
Wicander lit up, a radiant smile across his face. “Anyone called by the Light would do just the same, dear friend! It’s our calling to serve everyone the Light touches—which is everyone! No one is without its blessing.”
“Oh-“ He took up the pen and ink and passed it over to Victor. “Speaking of, have you ever participated in the Illumination ceremonies?” He asked, making room on the table for a small piece of parchment.
He remembered something Camille has said once, chiding him once again; he'd never accepted the Light's blessing, and there was only so much she could do to save him. Victor doubted that the acolyte truly wanted to. But... this priest did wish to, in some way. He clenched his jaw, wondering if this man believed it truly or was seeking to gain something from him.
"I'll admit I haven't. I know of them vaguely, but not particularly well. I know an acolyte, but I've never even stepped foot in one of your holy places," he said truthfully, though exaggerating it into an air of shame. The more sympathy he gained, the better.
“Oh, how special, your first!” Wicander took the admission in stride, wanting to turn something the poor man felt shameful about into something wonderful. He didn’t want anyone feeling awkward or embarrassed in his presence. Love, patience, kindness—these were infinite wells to reach into, springing ever from the Light that warmed them all.
“The Illumination,” His voice took on a gentler tone as he explained, setting up the table to accommodate both food and a space to write, “is a sort of blessing ceremony. It takes the intertwining of Light and truth and-“ He waved his hand in a gesture that produced little sparkles of light. “-invites the Light into places that might otherwise be hidden in shadow.” The sparkles drift lazily apart, towards the ceiling, until they look like stars above them.
He took a bite of food, partially to encourage Victor to keep eating. His hands had been so cold when they’d brushed up against his own, he was certain the man needed a little caretaking. But also, the atmosphere up here away from all the drinking and gambling was much more conducive to his appetite.
A laugh felt caught in the back of Victor's throat; he needed to not laugh in the man's face. There was still a chance of something more to be gained. Yet, he wasn't sure how long he had before Graz'zt would throw a fit. Still, he found himself unsure how to leave. He bit at his bottom lip, raking off some dead skin, taking some of the pigment on his lips along with it.
A blessing. That... didn't bode well, knowing how radiance treated his demonically touched skin. It had him on edge, so carefully watching Wicander's hands as he casted, watching the silvery lights that came from them. "What does one do in the case that they are... apprehensive about the Light shining upon certain truths? Afraid of what truths may look like when they are revealed?"
It was true vulnerability, rather than that of an act, but perhaps that wouldn't put him at too much risk. Perhaps being honest about apprehension would stop something truly bad from happening, for the priest to learn about who the warlock truly served. Not wanting to appear too on edge, he grabbed another morsel of food and ate, his eyes still trained on Wicander.
“Being nervous is okay! It’s a good sign, it means you’re taking this seriously.” The holy man offered him a smile, reached over to squeeze his arm. Just enough contact to offer a little comfort, then moved to what seemed like his resting position, hands clasped on top of the table.
“What I would ask of you, is to remember that it took a great deal of courage to approach me in the first place. I think you should take a moment to acknowledge that bravery. But,” He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a folded piece of paper, words gently glowing from the other side. Scripture, etched with filament. “I would never ask anything of you that I’m not willing to do myself.” He unfolded the paper, the light reflecting in his eyes. “A moment then, for a blessing.”
“Light of creation, bless us in our imperfect wisdom.” The filament grew brighter, words on the page searing as he read them.
“Radiate through this space, that all temptation may be purged and that we may devote ourselves further to all that shines in this world.” Tattoos down his arm and chest glowed bright enough to be visible through his priest’s vestments.
A fervor took hold of his voice. “Gleam upon the truth until it is all that remains.”
As the last word burned, a shimmer glistened like a collar around his neck. Wicander closed his eyes and leaned into the feeling, basking in the remnants of magic that lingered in the air. He sighed, smiled, as he saw a similar shimmer at Victor’s neck as well. Scrolls had taken some getting used to, it was his first time doing this without someone else there to make sure he was reading it right.
He discarded the burnt scraps of paper and settled, feeling a tingling at his throat as he spoke. “There, I’ve called a blessing over us, that only truth may be spoken here. It helps the ceremony to be entirely honest, and I hope it brings you a little comfort to know I’m taking this journey with you.”
“Now, don’t feel ashamed if you accidentally say something you only meant to think. I’ve heard it all, and I won’t be offended, I promise. Anything you say here is offered up to Illumination, not to me. I won’t get you in trouble if you were to confess any wrongdoing, unless of course someone would be in danger if I didn’t.”
The scroll surprised him... but likely, it wouldn't be anything he couldn't handle. Were it anything high level, it wouldn't be used on something so trivial. Victor watched in some morbid curiosity as the other man's tattoos began to glow, peering through his clothing; the magic was baked into his very veins. How interesting.
Yet, his thoughts snapped elsewhere, a cold, prickling pain on his throat, as if a collar-width strip of skin had been given frostbite. He held in any urge to react to the icy burn, instead listening to the priest's assurances.
The laugh that had threatened to bubble up several times in their interaction finally escaped him, the expression on his face something near a sneering smirk. Victor doubted that Wicander had truly heard it all, not when he was so trusting; if he heard half of the world's misdeeds, he wouldn't be quite so eager to rely on the kindness of strangers. "Oh sweet little priest, I've done things that would make your question your Light," he replied, the words easily leaving his lips for the first time this evening. "Some of them in this room, in the bed only meters from us, behind the bar downstairs."
Not all the sort of thing he assumed would happen tonight. Some of it just stealing, some as dark as his demon worship. That last point would take the color from the light cleric's face. Still, none of those words were meant to be said so freely. They weren't meant to be said at all. The severity of the spell cast hit the warlock like a ton of bricks, and he brought a hand to cover his mouth in shock, fingers digging into the flesh of his cheek.
"What have you done to me?" A dumb question in context. He knew zone of truth, but not usually in this more aggressive form. That was a new trick. His hand dropped, and all mirth with it, a sort of dread on his features as he felt a heaviness in the pit of his stomach. "This is what the Creed does, when you didn't even ask me if I wanted this? You are no better than demons."
Worried eyes took in Victor’s immediate shift in tone and posture. “I’m sorry!” The response was immediate. “I don’t know exactly what I’m sorry for, yet, but I’ve upset you—ink and void, I swear didn’t mean any harm by this. I’ve never known anyone to refuse a blessing, I didn’t think it would make any difference to ask. Ohh terrible, terrible-“ Rambling suddenly cut off as he stood from his seat, taking both of Victor’s hands in his. “Don’t say a word, come with me. Oh I’m such a fool, you said you were nervous and I only pushed you—come, come, quickly. Let’s leave the spell here to fade.”
Teeth clenched, Victor took pains to keep himself quiet, to not hear his thoughts rushing out of his mouth with no control. It wasn't something he was completely unused to— his patron enacted his will upon him with no thought to what he wanted, made him speak truthfully when they met, touched him and directed him as if he were no more than a doll in the Prince's grasp. Ruddy eyes squeezed closed as he ground his jaw, his breath caught in his chest. And yet, Wicander was giving apologies full force, acknowledging in some way that he caused anguish. ...that was unexpected. Even as he opened his eyes, he stared at the table, attempting to focus on his breath.
His hands were touched, taken in ones softer than his own, warm and comforting; even with that, he almost started to pull back. But the zone of truth affected them both, didn't it? All his naivety to the harm he could cause was genuine. He wanted to help. The warlock glanced up and nodded, trying to quiet himself from saying anything to the effect of you are a fool, and there is as much unintentional malice in you as intentional kindness. Instead, he stood from the chair, following Wicander out of the spell's reach.
Wicander was not an academic by any means, but he did have enough spacial awareness to judge that this room was about the same size as the ceremony rooms Illumination was typically performed in. Surely that meant further into the suite would take them out of range of the blessing.
Under normal circumstances, Wicander might feel a little strange about leading a man into his bedroom. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him with his things, Victor seemed like such a darling. It was just that he didn’t want Victor to think he was trying something untoward. “I’m not trying to be untoward.” The simplicity of this spell had always been something he considered elegant, helpful to remove the barriers between minds. How prideful, to think his experience would be Victor’s. “I’m sorry I assumed you would find comfort in this.”
As they stepped over the threshold Wicander felt the warm hum at his throat vanish. He put a hand up to feel at his neck, head tilting to check Victor’s neck as well. Wonderful! His guesstimate was correct.
He squeezed Victor’s hand, worried eyes watching his little movements. “Are you alright?”
With what Victor had gotten from this experience, Wicander wouldn't have done anything untoward with him, even if he had once been looking for this night to head towards this room. He'd imagined it differently, something more akin to the things that the priest didn't want him to assume. He still sort of wished that was what was happening, and maybe in some way that could still happen, despite the sort of violation the truth spell had caused. Perhaps that was stupid of the warlock, and yet he couldn't find it in himself in his condition to chastise himself.
Watching the color of sparkle fade from the priest's neck, he felt the icy burn fade around his. A sigh left his lips, and yet his chest wast still heaving. His eyes landed on him again, something a bit darker in his gaze now. “Better,” he said lowly, still careful of his words just yet. “I apologize for my outburst… yet, I still find it uncouth you didn’t ask me before you cast magic on me without my consent.”
His jaw set, shaking his head. “Lesser men would have done terrible things in retaliation to that, you know.”
His eyes flicked up, fearful, near immediately watery in the lantern light. “I understand.” He whispered, giving his hand a squeeze before letting go and taking a couple trembly steps backwards, until he felt a tingle around his neck again. Then he knelt, head bowed so Victor could see the proof of the spell working.
“I’m grateful for your patience with me while I’ve acted so dim.” His voice graveled at the last word, becoming thick with guilt. He bowed his head further, shoulders hunching, hands squeezed tight in his lap. “I’m sorry I-I broke your trust. Irresponsible—prideful, of me. I’ll never do this again, to anyone.”
The thought raced into his mind. “You came to me for guidance and I’ve taught you nothing but wariness—oh-“ He shuddered, biting down on a sob. He kept his voice as steady as he could but there was only so much he could hide, it broke and wavered despite him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Sometimes tears were a sign of a genuine intertwining of Light. As they began to fall down his cheeks, he couldn’t help the fear that came with the memories of times the Photarch had instead seen them as a sign of manipulation. He quickly scrubbed them away. “I’m sorry, I’m not- I’m not trying to make you feel bad!” He risked a glance up at him, checking for irritation, rage, then returned his gaze to the floor. “I cry easily. It’s not on purpose. I just feel so bad, I want to make this right. Please let me make this right for you.”
Victor watched the man with filament tattooed on his skin, Creed robes upon his body. A demonic master beyond chuckling at how delicious it would be to corrupt him, and yet that was hardly what he wanted to focus on tonight. He needed money, and it would be easy to swindle some rich cult leader out of some gold… either by a true transaction or by robbing him blind while he slept off drink and pleasure. Victor almost wanted to laugh himself. It was too easy.
Long fingers began to undo some of the top buttons of his shirt, leaving grey-ish pale skin and collarbones visible. He could be enough for a lost lamb for the noble, certainly, enough to need a one on one confession, personal penance… however the holy man wanted to justify it. Victor made his way over, bowing slightly to the luminescent figure, as he straightened back up, his brownish-red eyes lingered. “My lord.” He kept his voice sounding breathless on purpose. Helpless. “If you shouldst impart upon me your wisdom, I would give you anything in return.” (allexandrianrejects)
((General content warnings for the thread: Set before the events of the campaign, expect a fully indoctrinated Wicander. Also, nsfw themes! Enjoy ☀️
"It may be for the best," the half-elf replied, keeping his voice soft and unassuming. Perhaps getting the holy man alone would make him feel more at ease, to make whatever came next easier for both of them. "Thank you for offering your room for the night."
It seemed as if the flames brightened as Wicander stood, something Victor found himself unable to understand, and yet intrigued by. He followed his lead and made move to stand himself. As the key was presented towards him and he went to grab it, his fingers brushed briefly over Wicander's, his hands cold. "Of course," he replied, bowing his head again. When he turned away, a sigh of relief fell from his lips, something almost akin to a laugh.
When Wicander arrived at his room he did so with another full tray of food, two cups of water each, and a quill and ink pot he borrowed from downstairs. “I brought more food for us, I won’t have you eating only half a meal. And if anything isn’t to your liking, I have no problems finding you something else—shimmering starlight, what a tiny table. Oh, no matter.” He swept into the room, setting the tray down on the table-for-one next to the window.
“Oh dear, there’s only one chair. One moment, I’ll take care of this Victor, you go ahead and start eating. Goodness, you’re pale.” And he swept right back out of the room!
Inside of the room, Wicander had already put all his travel gear in a neat little pile at the foot of the bed. His satchel sat at the top, which contained everything he’d ever need: silver jewelry, his coin purse, his travel papers, a diary, two crisp, identical holy books, a glitter jar, and a bottle of ridiculously expensive perfume.
Victor was aware enough of the situation— one bed, one chair to the side, a small table to be used for a meal or a writing desk... but most times in a place like this, the table would be ignored. The bed and the chair were what most often got used, after all. It wasn't the worst room he'd ended up in by a long shot; this wasn't a tavern he'd ever worked for, and so it was less familiar territory, but it would do, no matter how the rest of the night went.
And the Halovar arrived like a hurricane, talking a mile a minute, presenting him with more food, more kindness he didn't quite understand. He sighed over how pale the warlock was, wanting to get him fed and watered. How strange it all was... and then his eyes drifted to the open satchel and all its glittering contents.
He wouldn't take it all; that would be much too obvious. ...but maybe this would be an assurance that he'd get something out of this ruse, even with how oblivious the cleric seemed to be. Cute enough, he'd admit, but not the most observant of men. Victor opened the drawstring leather pouch at his hip, grabbing two silver rings and a handful of the many gold coins in the coin purse. He paused upon seeing the perfume, lifting it up to his nose to smell, but decided it would be too easily missed. Closing his own bag again, he adjusted the satchel to be just as it was left before heading over towards the small table.
The perfect crime.
Wicander backed into the room with a small wooden stool hugged to his chest. He set it on the other side of the table and shut the door behind them, panting only slightly from the effort. “All set! How do you like the food? I tried to get fresh fruit but all they had were jams so I got us two to share.”
There was the barest flicker of guilt, somehow not for the stealing, but for not helping Wicander as he heard him panting from exertion just at getting the stool up the stairs. Victor likely would have been able to carry the cleric and the stool up the stairs if he’d wanted to. Likely not applicable at this point, but he supposed it was always an option, still.
“I’ve not had much. But it is good. Thank you for all of your generosity, my lord,” he replied, head bent but eyes trained on the other man. More generosity than the noble likely would have chosen, yet he was certain it wouldn’t be missed.
Wicander lit up, a radiant smile across his face. “Anyone called by the Light would do just the same, dear friend! It’s our calling to serve everyone the Light touches—which is everyone! No one is without its blessing.”
“Oh-“ He took up the pen and ink and passed it over to Victor. “Speaking of, have you ever participated in the Illumination ceremonies?” He asked, making room on the table for a small piece of parchment.
He remembered something Camille has said once, chiding him once again; he'd never accepted the Light's blessing, and there was only so much she could do to save him. Victor doubted that the acolyte truly wanted to. But... this priest did wish to, in some way. He clenched his jaw, wondering if this man believed it truly or was seeking to gain something from him.
"I'll admit I haven't. I know of them vaguely, but not particularly well. I know an acolyte, but I've never even stepped foot in one of your holy places," he said truthfully, though exaggerating it into an air of shame. The more sympathy he gained, the better.
“Oh, how special, your first!” Wicander took the admission in stride, wanting to turn something the poor man felt shameful about into something wonderful. He didn’t want anyone feeling awkward or embarrassed in his presence. Love, patience, kindness—these were infinite wells to reach into, springing ever from the Light that warmed them all.
“The Illumination,” His voice took on a gentler tone as he explained, setting up the table to accommodate both food and a space to write, “is a sort of blessing ceremony. It takes the intertwining of Light and truth and-“ He waved his hand in a gesture that produced little sparkles of light. “-invites the Light into places that might otherwise be hidden in shadow.” The sparkles drift lazily apart, towards the ceiling, until they look like stars above them.
He took a bite of food, partially to encourage Victor to keep eating. His hands had been so cold when they’d brushed up against his own, he was certain the man needed a little caretaking. But also, the atmosphere up here away from all the drinking and gambling was much more conducive to his appetite.
A laugh felt caught in the back of Victor's throat; he needed to not laugh in the man's face. There was still a chance of something more to be gained. Yet, he wasn't sure how long he had before Graz'zt would throw a fit. Still, he found himself unsure how to leave. He bit at his bottom lip, raking off some dead skin, taking some of the pigment on his lips along with it.
A blessing. That... didn't bode well, knowing how radiance treated his demonically touched skin. It had him on edge, so carefully watching Wicander's hands as he casted, watching the silvery lights that came from them. "What does one do in the case that they are... apprehensive about the Light shining upon certain truths? Afraid of what truths may look like when they are revealed?"
It was true vulnerability, rather than that of an act, but perhaps that wouldn't put him at too much risk. Perhaps being honest about apprehension would stop something truly bad from happening, for the priest to learn about who the warlock truly served. Not wanting to appear too on edge, he grabbed another morsel of food and ate, his eyes still trained on Wicander.
“Being nervous is okay! It’s a good sign, it means you’re taking this seriously.” The holy man offered him a smile, reached over to squeeze his arm. Just enough contact to offer a little comfort, then moved to what seemed like his resting position, hands clasped on top of the table.
“What I would ask of you, is to remember that it took a great deal of courage to approach me in the first place. I think you should take a moment to acknowledge that bravery. But,” He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a folded piece of paper, words gently glowing from the other side. Scripture, etched with filament. “I would never ask anything of you that I’m not willing to do myself.” He unfolded the paper, the light reflecting in his eyes. “A moment then, for a blessing.”
“Light of creation, bless us in our imperfect wisdom.” The filament grew brighter, words on the page searing as he read them.
“Radiate through this space, that all temptation may be purged and that we may devote ourselves further to all that shines in this world.” Tattoos down his arm and chest glowed bright enough to be visible through his priest’s vestments.
A fervor took hold of his voice. “Gleam upon the truth until it is all that remains.”
As the last word burned, a shimmer glistened like a collar around his neck. Wicander closed his eyes and leaned into the feeling, basking in the remnants of magic that lingered in the air. He sighed, smiled, as he saw a similar shimmer at Victor’s neck as well. Scrolls had taken some getting used to, it was his first time doing this without someone else there to make sure he was reading it right.
He discarded the burnt scraps of paper and settled, feeling a tingling at his throat as he spoke. “There, I’ve called a blessing over us, that only truth may be spoken here. It helps the ceremony to be entirely honest, and I hope it brings you a little comfort to know I’m taking this journey with you.”
“Now, don’t feel ashamed if you accidentally say something you only meant to think. I’ve heard it all, and I won’t be offended, I promise. Anything you say here is offered up to Illumination, not to me. I won’t get you in trouble if you were to confess any wrongdoing, unless of course someone would be in danger if I didn’t.”
The scroll surprised him... but likely, it wouldn't be anything he couldn't handle. Were it anything high level, it wouldn't be used on something so trivial. Victor watched in some morbid curiosity as the other man's tattoos began to glow, peering through his clothing; the magic was baked into his very veins. How interesting.
Yet, his thoughts snapped elsewhere, a cold, prickling pain on his throat, as if a collar-width strip of skin had been given frostbite. He held in any urge to react to the icy burn, instead listening to the priest's assurances.
The laugh that had threatened to bubble up several times in their interaction finally escaped him, the expression on his face something near a sneering smirk. Victor doubted that Wicander had truly heard it all, not when he was so trusting; if he heard half of the world's misdeeds, he wouldn't be quite so eager to rely on the kindness of strangers. "Oh sweet little priest, I've done things that would make your question your Light," he replied, the words easily leaving his lips for the first time this evening. "Some of them in this room, in the bed only meters from us, behind the bar downstairs."
Not all the sort of thing he assumed would happen tonight. Some of it just stealing, some as dark as his demon worship. That last point would take the color from the light cleric's face. Still, none of those words were meant to be said so freely. They weren't meant to be said at all. The severity of the spell cast hit the warlock like a ton of bricks, and he brought a hand to cover his mouth in shock, fingers digging into the flesh of his cheek.
"What have you done to me?" A dumb question in context. He knew zone of truth, but not usually in this more aggressive form. That was a new trick. His hand dropped, and all mirth with it, a sort of dread on his features as he felt a heaviness in the pit of his stomach. "This is what the Creed does, when you didn't even ask me if I wanted this? You are no better than demons."
Worried eyes took in Victor’s immediate shift in tone and posture. “I’m sorry!” The response was immediate. “I don’t know exactly what I’m sorry for, yet, but I’ve upset you—ink and void, I swear didn’t mean any harm by this. I’ve never known anyone to refuse a blessing, I didn’t think it would make any difference to ask. Ohh terrible, terrible-“ Rambling suddenly cut off as he stood from his seat, taking both of Victor’s hands in his. “Don’t say a word, come with me. Oh I’m such a fool, you said you were nervous and I only pushed you—come, come, quickly. Let’s leave the spell here to fade.”
Teeth clenched, Victor took pains to keep himself quiet, to not hear his thoughts rushing out of his mouth with no control. It wasn't something he was completely unused to— his patron enacted his will upon him with no thought to what he wanted, made him speak truthfully when they met, touched him and directed him as if he were no more than a doll in the Prince's grasp. Ruddy eyes squeezed closed as he ground his jaw, his breath caught in his chest. And yet, Wicander was giving apologies full force, acknowledging in some way that he caused anguish. ...that was unexpected. Even as he opened his eyes, he stared at the table, attempting to focus on his breath.
His hands were touched, taken in ones softer than his own, warm and comforting; even with that, he almost started to pull back. But the zone of truth affected them both, didn't it? All his naivety to the harm he could cause was genuine. He wanted to help. The warlock glanced up and nodded, trying to quiet himself from saying anything to the effect of you are a fool, and there is as much unintentional malice in you as intentional kindness. Instead, he stood from the chair, following Wicander out of the spell's reach.
Wicander was not an academic by any means, but he did have enough spacial awareness to judge that this room was about the same size as the ceremony rooms Illumination was typically performed in. Surely that meant further into the suite would take them out of range of the blessing.
Under normal circumstances, Wicander might feel a little strange about leading a man into his bedroom. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him with his things, Victor seemed like such a darling. It was just that he didn’t want Victor to think he was trying something untoward. “I’m not trying to be untoward.” The simplicity of this spell had always been something he considered elegant, helpful to remove the barriers between minds. How prideful, to think his experience would be Victor’s. “I’m sorry I assumed you would find comfort in this.”
As they stepped over the threshold Wicander felt the warm hum at his throat vanish. He put a hand up to feel at his neck, head tilting to check Victor’s neck as well. Wonderful! His guesstimate was correct.
He squeezed Victor’s hand, worried eyes watching his little movements. “Are you alright?”
@candle-wic
Do you mind if I keep you company on your watch tonight? I can’t sleep.
I don't mind at all, Wic.
Thank you. It’s nice to have your solid presence at my side.
…Do you ever find this difficult?
You are very welcome.
Belive it or not, I actually do find this difficult sometimes.
Really? You’re always so- I don’t know, maybe I’m just not paying enough attention. You just always seem like you know what you’re doing. Strength in your convictions, and what have you.
I suppose maybe I’m feeling a little lacking, in the whole “knowing what I’m doing” department.
Strengh in convictions does not mean that I have it all figured out tho. Hm, how do I put this? Sometimes even the strongest people find things difficult, even if you can't say it.
Well, lucky for you, we are more then happy to help you should you need it.
You really don’t show it, ha. ….Thank you. You know, I’ve always really respected you, since the moment we met. You have this energy about you, I don’t know what it is. You’re- oh this is maybe awkward to say. But I believe you should never leave a compliment unspoken. Teor, you inspire me. You instill in me hope, in who maybe I can be, if I keep pushing.
Victor watched the man with filament tattooed on his skin, Creed robes upon his body. A demonic master beyond chuckling at how delicious it would be to corrupt him, and yet that was hardly what he wanted to focus on tonight. He needed money, and it would be easy to swindle some rich cult leader out of some gold… either by a true transaction or by robbing him blind while he slept off drink and pleasure. Victor almost wanted to laugh himself. It was too easy.
Long fingers began to undo some of the top buttons of his shirt, leaving grey-ish pale skin and collarbones visible. He could be enough for a lost lamb for the noble, certainly, enough to need a one on one confession, personal penance… however the holy man wanted to justify it. Victor made his way over, bowing slightly to the luminescent figure, as he straightened back up, his brownish-red eyes lingered. “My lord.” He kept his voice sounding breathless on purpose. Helpless. “If you shouldst impart upon me your wisdom, I would give you anything in return.” (allexandrianrejects)
((General content warnings for the thread: Set before the events of the campaign, expect a fully indoctrinated Wicander. Also, nsfw themes! Enjoy ☀️
"It may be for the best," the half-elf replied, keeping his voice soft and unassuming. Perhaps getting the holy man alone would make him feel more at ease, to make whatever came next easier for both of them. "Thank you for offering your room for the night."
It seemed as if the flames brightened as Wicander stood, something Victor found himself unable to understand, and yet intrigued by. He followed his lead and made move to stand himself. As the key was presented towards him and he went to grab it, his fingers brushed briefly over Wicander's, his hands cold. "Of course," he replied, bowing his head again. When he turned away, a sigh of relief fell from his lips, something almost akin to a laugh.
When Wicander arrived at his room he did so with another full tray of food, two cups of water each, and a quill and ink pot he borrowed from downstairs. “I brought more food for us, I won’t have you eating only half a meal. And if anything isn’t to your liking, I have no problems finding you something else—shimmering starlight, what a tiny table. Oh, no matter.” He swept into the room, setting the tray down on the table-for-one next to the window.
“Oh dear, there’s only one chair. One moment, I’ll take care of this Victor, you go ahead and start eating. Goodness, you’re pale.” And he swept right back out of the room!
Inside of the room, Wicander had already put all his travel gear in a neat little pile at the foot of the bed. His satchel sat at the top, which contained everything he’d ever need: silver jewelry, his coin purse, his travel papers, a diary, two crisp, identical holy books, a glitter jar, and a bottle of ridiculously expensive perfume.
Victor was aware enough of the situation— one bed, one chair to the side, a small table to be used for a meal or a writing desk... but most times in a place like this, the table would be ignored. The bed and the chair were what most often got used, after all. It wasn't the worst room he'd ended up in by a long shot; this wasn't a tavern he'd ever worked for, and so it was less familiar territory, but it would do, no matter how the rest of the night went.
And the Halovar arrived like a hurricane, talking a mile a minute, presenting him with more food, more kindness he didn't quite understand. He sighed over how pale the warlock was, wanting to get him fed and watered. How strange it all was... and then his eyes drifted to the open satchel and all its glittering contents.
He wouldn't take it all; that would be much too obvious. ...but maybe this would be an assurance that he'd get something out of this ruse, even with how oblivious the cleric seemed to be. Cute enough, he'd admit, but not the most observant of men. Victor opened the drawstring leather pouch at his hip, grabbing two silver rings and a handful of the many gold coins in the coin purse. He paused upon seeing the perfume, lifting it up to his nose to smell, but decided it would be too easily missed. Closing his own bag again, he adjusted the satchel to be just as it was left before heading over towards the small table.
The perfect crime.
Wicander backed into the room with a small wooden stool hugged to his chest. He set it on the other side of the table and shut the door behind them, panting only slightly from the effort. “All set! How do you like the food? I tried to get fresh fruit but all they had were jams so I got us two to share.”
There was the barest flicker of guilt, somehow not for the stealing, but for not helping Wicander as he heard him panting from exertion just at getting the stool up the stairs. Victor likely would have been able to carry the cleric and the stool up the stairs if he’d wanted to. Likely not applicable at this point, but he supposed it was always an option, still.
“I’ve not had much. But it is good. Thank you for all of your generosity, my lord,” he replied, head bent but eyes trained on the other man. More generosity than the noble likely would have chosen, yet he was certain it wouldn’t be missed.
Wicander lit up, a radiant smile across his face. “Anyone called by the Light would do just the same, dear friend! It’s our calling to serve everyone the Light touches—which is everyone! No one is without its blessing.”
“Oh-“ He took up the pen and ink and passed it over to Victor. “Speaking of, have you ever participated in the Illumination ceremonies?” He asked, making room on the table for a small piece of parchment.
He remembered something Camille has said once, chiding him once again; he'd never accepted the Light's blessing, and there was only so much she could do to save him. Victor doubted that the acolyte truly wanted to. But... this priest did wish to, in some way. He clenched his jaw, wondering if this man believed it truly or was seeking to gain something from him.
"I'll admit I haven't. I know of them vaguely, but not particularly well. I know an acolyte, but I've never even stepped foot in one of your holy places," he said truthfully, though exaggerating it into an air of shame. The more sympathy he gained, the better.
“Oh, how special, your first!” Wicander took the admission in stride, wanting to turn something the poor man felt shameful about into something wonderful. He didn’t want anyone feeling awkward or embarrassed in his presence. Love, patience, kindness—these were infinite wells to reach into, springing ever from the Light that warmed them all.
“The Illumination,” His voice took on a gentler tone as he explained, setting up the table to accommodate both food and a space to write, “is a sort of blessing ceremony. It takes the intertwining of Light and truth and-“ He waved his hand in a gesture that produced little sparkles of light. “-invites the Light into places that might otherwise be hidden in shadow.” The sparkles drift lazily apart, towards the ceiling, until they look like stars above them.
He took a bite of food, partially to encourage Victor to keep eating. His hands had been so cold when they’d brushed up against his own, he was certain the man needed a little caretaking. But also, the atmosphere up here away from all the drinking and gambling was much more conducive to his appetite.
A laugh felt caught in the back of Victor's throat; he needed to not laugh in the man's face. There was still a chance of something more to be gained. Yet, he wasn't sure how long he had before Graz'zt would throw a fit. Still, he found himself unsure how to leave. He bit at his bottom lip, raking off some dead skin, taking some of the pigment on his lips along with it.
A blessing. That... didn't bode well, knowing how radiance treated his demonically touched skin. It had him on edge, so carefully watching Wicander's hands as he casted, watching the silvery lights that came from them. "What does one do in the case that they are... apprehensive about the Light shining upon certain truths? Afraid of what truths may look like when they are revealed?"
It was true vulnerability, rather than that of an act, but perhaps that wouldn't put him at too much risk. Perhaps being honest about apprehension would stop something truly bad from happening, for the priest to learn about who the warlock truly served. Not wanting to appear too on edge, he grabbed another morsel of food and ate, his eyes still trained on Wicander.
“Being nervous is okay! It’s a good sign, it means you’re taking this seriously.” The holy man offered him a smile, reached over to squeeze his arm. Just enough contact to offer a little comfort, then moved to what seemed like his resting position, hands clasped on top of the table.
“What I would ask of you, is to remember that it took a great deal of courage to approach me in the first place. I think you should take a moment to acknowledge that bravery. But,” He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a folded piece of paper, words gently glowing from the other side. Scripture, etched with filament. “I would never ask anything of you that I’m not willing to do myself.” He unfolded the paper, the light reflecting in his eyes. “A moment then, for a blessing.”
“Light of creation, bless us in our imperfect wisdom.” The filament grew brighter, words on the page searing as he read them.
“Radiate through this space, that all temptation may be purged and that we may devote ourselves further to all that shines in this world.” Tattoos down his arm and chest glowed bright enough to be visible through his priest’s vestments.
A fervor took hold of his voice. “Gleam upon the truth until it is all that remains.”
As the last word burned, a shimmer glistened like a collar around his neck. Wicander closed his eyes and leaned into the feeling, basking in the remnants of magic that lingered in the air. He sighed, smiled, as he saw a similar shimmer at Victor’s neck as well. Scrolls had taken some getting used to, it was his first time doing this without someone else there to make sure he was reading it right.
He discarded the burnt scraps of paper and settled, feeling a tingling at his throat as he spoke. “There, I’ve called a blessing over us, that only truth may be spoken here. It helps the ceremony to be entirely honest, and I hope it brings you a little comfort to know I’m taking this journey with you.”
“Now, don’t feel ashamed if you accidentally say something you only meant to think. I’ve heard it all, and I won’t be offended, I promise. Anything you say here is offered up to Illumination, not to me. I won’t get you in trouble if you were to confess any wrongdoing, unless of course someone would be in danger if I didn’t.”
The scroll surprised him... but likely, it wouldn't be anything he couldn't handle. Were it anything high level, it wouldn't be used on something so trivial. Victor watched in some morbid curiosity as the other man's tattoos began to glow, peering through his clothing; the magic was baked into his very veins. How interesting.
Yet, his thoughts snapped elsewhere, a cold, prickling pain on his throat, as if a collar-width strip of skin had been given frostbite. He held in any urge to react to the icy burn, instead listening to the priest's assurances.
The laugh that had threatened to bubble up several times in their interaction finally escaped him, the expression on his face something near a sneering smirk. Victor doubted that Wicander had truly heard it all, not when he was so trusting; if he heard half of the world's misdeeds, he wouldn't be quite so eager to rely on the kindness of strangers. "Oh sweet little priest, I've done things that would make your question your Light," he replied, the words easily leaving his lips for the first time this evening. "Some of them in this room, in the bed only meters from us, behind the bar downstairs."
Not all the sort of thing he assumed would happen tonight. Some of it just stealing, some as dark as his demon worship. That last point would take the color from the light cleric's face. Still, none of those words were meant to be said so freely. They weren't meant to be said at all. The severity of the spell cast hit the warlock like a ton of bricks, and he brought a hand to cover his mouth in shock, fingers digging into the flesh of his cheek.
"What have you done to me?" A dumb question in context. He knew zone of truth, but not usually in this more aggressive form. That was a new trick. His hand dropped, and all mirth with it, a sort of dread on his features as he felt a heaviness in the pit of his stomach. "This is what the Creed does, when you didn't even ask me if I wanted this? You are no better than demons."
Worried eyes took in Victor’s immediate shift in tone and posture. “I’m sorry!” The response was immediate. “I don’t know exactly what I’m sorry for, yet, but I’ve upset you—ink and void, I swear didn’t mean any harm by this. I’ve never known anyone to refuse a blessing, I didn’t think it would make any difference to ask. Ohh terrible, terrible-“ Rambling suddenly cut off as he stood from his seat, taking both of Victor’s hands in his. “Don’t say a word, come with me. Oh I’m such a fool, you said you were nervous and I only pushed you—come, come, quickly. Let’s leave the spell here to fade.”
Victor watched the man with filament tattooed on his skin, Creed robes upon his body. A demonic master beyond chuckling at how delicious it would be to corrupt him, and yet that was hardly what he wanted to focus on tonight. He needed money, and it would be easy to swindle some rich cult leader out of some gold… either by a true transaction or by robbing him blind while he slept off drink and pleasure. Victor almost wanted to laugh himself. It was too easy.
Long fingers began to undo some of the top buttons of his shirt, leaving grey-ish pale skin and collarbones visible. He could be enough for a lost lamb for the noble, certainly, enough to need a one on one confession, personal penance… however the holy man wanted to justify it. Victor made his way over, bowing slightly to the luminescent figure, as he straightened back up, his brownish-red eyes lingered. “My lord.” He kept his voice sounding breathless on purpose. Helpless. “If you shouldst impart upon me your wisdom, I would give you anything in return.” (allexandrianrejects)
((General content warnings for the thread: Set before the events of the campaign, expect a fully indoctrinated Wicander. Also, nsfw themes! Enjoy ☀️
"It may be for the best," the half-elf replied, keeping his voice soft and unassuming. Perhaps getting the holy man alone would make him feel more at ease, to make whatever came next easier for both of them. "Thank you for offering your room for the night."
It seemed as if the flames brightened as Wicander stood, something Victor found himself unable to understand, and yet intrigued by. He followed his lead and made move to stand himself. As the key was presented towards him and he went to grab it, his fingers brushed briefly over Wicander's, his hands cold. "Of course," he replied, bowing his head again. When he turned away, a sigh of relief fell from his lips, something almost akin to a laugh.
When Wicander arrived at his room he did so with another full tray of food, two cups of water each, and a quill and ink pot he borrowed from downstairs. “I brought more food for us, I won’t have you eating only half a meal. And if anything isn’t to your liking, I have no problems finding you something else—shimmering starlight, what a tiny table. Oh, no matter.” He swept into the room, setting the tray down on the table-for-one next to the window.
“Oh dear, there’s only one chair. One moment, I’ll take care of this Victor, you go ahead and start eating. Goodness, you’re pale.” And he swept right back out of the room!
Inside of the room, Wicander had already put all his travel gear in a neat little pile at the foot of the bed. His satchel sat at the top, which contained everything he’d ever need: silver jewelry, his coin purse, his travel papers, a diary, two crisp, identical holy books, a glitter jar, and a bottle of ridiculously expensive perfume.
Victor was aware enough of the situation— one bed, one chair to the side, a small table to be used for a meal or a writing desk... but most times in a place like this, the table would be ignored. The bed and the chair were what most often got used, after all. It wasn't the worst room he'd ended up in by a long shot; this wasn't a tavern he'd ever worked for, and so it was less familiar territory, but it would do, no matter how the rest of the night went.
And the Halovar arrived like a hurricane, talking a mile a minute, presenting him with more food, more kindness he didn't quite understand. He sighed over how pale the warlock was, wanting to get him fed and watered. How strange it all was... and then his eyes drifted to the open satchel and all its glittering contents.
He wouldn't take it all; that would be much too obvious. ...but maybe this would be an assurance that he'd get something out of this ruse, even with how oblivious the cleric seemed to be. Cute enough, he'd admit, but not the most observant of men. Victor opened the drawstring leather pouch at his hip, grabbing two silver rings and a handful of the many gold coins in the coin purse. He paused upon seeing the perfume, lifting it up to his nose to smell, but decided it would be too easily missed. Closing his own bag again, he adjusted the satchel to be just as it was left before heading over towards the small table.
The perfect crime.
Wicander backed into the room with a small wooden stool hugged to his chest. He set it on the other side of the table and shut the door behind them, panting only slightly from the effort. “All set! How do you like the food? I tried to get fresh fruit but all they had were jams so I got us two to share.”
There was the barest flicker of guilt, somehow not for the stealing, but for not helping Wicander as he heard him panting from exertion just at getting the stool up the stairs. Victor likely would have been able to carry the cleric and the stool up the stairs if he’d wanted to. Likely not applicable at this point, but he supposed it was always an option, still.
“I’ve not had much. But it is good. Thank you for all of your generosity, my lord,” he replied, head bent but eyes trained on the other man. More generosity than the noble likely would have chosen, yet he was certain it wouldn’t be missed.
Wicander lit up, a radiant smile across his face. “Anyone called by the Light would do just the same, dear friend! It’s our calling to serve everyone the Light touches—which is everyone! No one is without its blessing.”
“Oh-“ He took up the pen and ink and passed it over to Victor. “Speaking of, have you ever participated in the Illumination ceremonies?” He asked, making room on the table for a small piece of parchment.
He remembered something Camille has said once, chiding him once again; he'd never accepted the Light's blessing, and there was only so much she could do to save him. Victor doubted that the acolyte truly wanted to. But... this priest did wish to, in some way. He clenched his jaw, wondering if this man believed it truly or was seeking to gain something from him.
"I'll admit I haven't. I know of them vaguely, but not particularly well. I know an acolyte, but I've never even stepped foot in one of your holy places," he said truthfully, though exaggerating it into an air of shame. The more sympathy he gained, the better.
“Oh, how special, your first!” Wicander took the admission in stride, wanting to turn something the poor man felt shameful about into something wonderful. He didn’t want anyone feeling awkward or embarrassed in his presence. Love, patience, kindness—these were infinite wells to reach into, springing ever from the Light that warmed them all.
“The Illumination,” His voice took on a gentler tone as he explained, setting up the table to accommodate both food and a space to write, “is a sort of blessing ceremony. It takes the intertwining of Light and truth and-“ He waved his hand in a gesture that produced little sparkles of light. “-invites the Light into places that might otherwise be hidden in shadow.” The sparkles drift lazily apart, towards the ceiling, until they look like stars above them.
He took a bite of food, partially to encourage Victor to keep eating. His hands had been so cold when they’d brushed up against his own, he was certain the man needed a little caretaking. But also, the atmosphere up here away from all the drinking and gambling was much more conducive to his appetite.
A laugh felt caught in the back of Victor's throat; he needed to not laugh in the man's face. There was still a chance of something more to be gained. Yet, he wasn't sure how long he had before Graz'zt would throw a fit. Still, he found himself unsure how to leave. He bit at his bottom lip, raking off some dead skin, taking some of the pigment on his lips along with it.
A blessing. That... didn't bode well, knowing how radiance treated his demonically touched skin. It had him on edge, so carefully watching Wicander's hands as he casted, watching the silvery lights that came from them. "What does one do in the case that they are... apprehensive about the Light shining upon certain truths? Afraid of what truths may look like when they are revealed?"
It was true vulnerability, rather than that of an act, but perhaps that wouldn't put him at too much risk. Perhaps being honest about apprehension would stop something truly bad from happening, for the priest to learn about who the warlock truly served. Not wanting to appear too on edge, he grabbed another morsel of food and ate, his eyes still trained on Wicander.
“Being nervous is okay! It’s a good sign, it means you’re taking this seriously.” The holy man offered him a smile, reached over to squeeze his arm. Just enough contact to offer a little comfort, then moved to what seemed like his resting position, hands clasped on top of the table.
“What I would ask of you, is to remember that it took a great deal of courage to approach me in the first place. I think you should take a moment to acknowledge that bravery. But,” He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a folded piece of paper, words gently glowing from the other side. Scripture, etched with filament. “I would never ask anything of you that I’m not willing to do myself.” He unfolded the paper, the light reflecting in his eyes. “A moment then, for a blessing.”
“Light of creation, bless us in our imperfect wisdom.” The filament grew brighter, words on the page searing as he read them.
“Radiate through this space, that all temptation may be purged and that we may devote ourselves further to all that shines in this world.” Tattoos down his arm and chest glowed bright enough to be visible through his priest’s vestments.
A fervor took hold of his voice. “Gleam upon the truth until it is all that remains.”
As the last word burned, a shimmer glistened like a collar around his neck. Wicander closed his eyes and leaned into the feeling, basking in the remnants of magic that lingered in the air. He sighed, smiled, as he saw a similar shimmer at Victor’s neck as well. Scrolls had taken some getting used to, it was his first time doing this without someone else there to make sure he was reading it right.
He discarded the burnt scraps of paper and settled, feeling a tingling at his throat as he spoke. “There, I’ve called a blessing over us, that only truth may be spoken here. It helps the ceremony to be entirely honest, and I hope it brings you a little comfort to know I’m taking this journey with you.”
“Now, don’t feel ashamed if you accidentally say something you only meant to think. I’ve heard it all, and I won’t be offended, I promise. Anything you say here is offered up to Illumination, not to me. I won’t get you in trouble if you were to confess any wrongdoing, unless of course someone would be in danger if I didn’t.”
The Dough and Den is, like Murray said, more of a bakery than a tavern. The 'bar' is loaded with breads and stacks of pastries, and the scattered tables are more likely to have crumbs than half-emptied drinks. The one very quickly obvious thing to Wic, or any other tall folk entering, is that the Dough and Den is a haven for the micro minority (pun intended) of small folk in the big city. The default patron, whether gnome, halfling, dwarf or among the smaller beast folk, falls a good two heads bellow Wic's 5'11", and indeed human sized seats are in a corner against the wall, with those already set up at tables far lower. Murray, with one such chair already pulled across from her, has a coffee in one hand and a marking pen in another. She can't help but grin at seeing Wic duck through the doorwaym
Wicander’s eyes anxiously scanned the room until his eyes caught on a familiar hat, long red hair, a grin that loosened the tension in his shoulders. “Ms. Mag’Nesson!” A similar grin grew on his face. He rushed forward to greet her, hands raising to take hers—he didn’t see the hanging lantern until he’s smacked his forehead right into it. “Oh-!” He yelped, holding his forehead and reaching up to steady the swinging light fixture. “Oh, ow, oww…”
This was not the first time the waitress bussing tables had seen this exact scenario play out, and she kept her smile aimed away from the new guest so he wouldn’t cause a fuss about it. The lantern hungered for blood, and tonight it had claimed another victim.
“I could’a seen that coming from a mile away without a spell slot in sight,” Murray jokes, slapping the table as he gets closer. “Come on, come on down. Get on my level. In an effort toward friendship, you’ll notice I’m not even drinkin’.”
Immediately after, she takes the last few huge swallows of her coffee. “A triple shot off coffee, please, and a second loaf of whatever this gentleman decides. They’ve got rosemary floral bread, damn good bear bread, cheese and ham spiral buns, spinach swirl loaves, and it’s all heartier and homier than the womb itself.” The waitress gives a polite smile. “We use dwarf-milled flour from North of Timmony, which gives a distinctive texture without much changing the taste. The current special is sage and olive.”
A bit flustered, Wicander pulls out the chair across from Murray and sits, rubbing the pink mark on his forehead. He takes the teasing in good fun—it doesn’t ache too bad, more embarrassing than anything, but the pain is quickly forgotten for the sake of ordering. “Oh, sage and olive sounds just lovely right now, thank you madam.”
“Alright, and anything to drink for you, sir?” The waitress asks, jotting down their orders on a small pad of paper.
“Do you have lavender tea?”
“We sure do, sir. Our lavender we actually dry in-house, we get it fresh from a local garden.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, I’ll have that, then.”
“Alright, we’ve got two specials, one triple shot, and a lavender tea. I’ll go ahead and get that started for you!”
As she leaves, Wicander turns to Murray with excitement, bump on the head already forgotten. “It’s so good to see you, you would not believe the week I’ve had. —You look radiant, by the way, I love how you’ve done your hair.” He means it, though it’s less that she’s done something special with her appearance and more that he’s never seen her comfortable and happy before. If he realizes this, he certainly doesn’t comment on it.
"Thanks, its the rare day I get to wash it. NY curls could do with more than water and cantrips, but you know how it is."
She's pretty sure he doesn't, actually, and has an army to pamper him, but if he's approaching in good faith, so will she.
"So," she says evenly, "tell MW what's so unbelievable about your week."
He doesn’t, no, but he doesn’t want to seem uninformed in front of someone who works in academia so he gives just a smile in reply.
He lowers his voice, leaning in slightly. “Well, for starters, my family doesn’t even know I’m in the city. I’ve been going by a pseudonym—Nick—because I’m a very sneaky person now. Sort of like Thimble!” The way he says her name makes it clear he’s quite impressed by her.
"Learning to put subterfuge to practice. I like it."
The drinks arrive, and she takes a huge sip of hers. "What exactly has Nick been up to? Anyone I shouldn't mention him to?"
The tea is warm, soothing, and it smells wonderful. He takes gentle sips.
“Well, Nick has been doing a little bit of trickery, a little tiny bit of theft, and ah, getting into some admittedly quite scary battles. It turns out, when you move against the Tachonis, suddenly a lot of people are okay with killing and hurting you. Which,” he adds with a tilt of his head, “honestly I think is unbecoming.”
"Sounds like a dashing fellow, this Nick," Murray said with a saucy wink. "I hope he hasn't been caught. Otherwise we might have a repeat of dear Ol'Thjazi. We're working on establishing a safe house, Nick should know. With a very gifted young illusionist."
She gave a melodramatic sigh. "It really is a shame one of my favorite grad students and one of the Mercanade's favorite performers, Demodus Blix, is missing...I might have chosen him for the internship program we're starting with the Archenade...I DID choose Hero Daivon, though. Not the Fang sister I'd assume you were familiar with, but you're acquainted with Shadia Lloy, I would assume? How is your acting coming along?"
The elation at being called a dashing fellow is quickly culled by the reminder of just what happens to dashing roguish types in this city.
“I’ve met them both, actually!” He didn’t exactly remember which one was which, but he had great, brief impressions of each. “Though I don’t know the student you’re referring to. Is he someone I should know?”
"Well, he's not someone you should know, but maybe someday Nick might like to meet him. He's quite the showman, and very sweet. He's not someone I should know anymore either," Murray says with a sigh. "You think your week was crazy. You haven't had to literally burn body fat. Or commune with a mural. Or eat ass steak. And kiss ass with someone who sold out a friend. Or, worst of all, choose interns."
That was a lot to parse all at once, and Wic had never been great with magic or business. It didn’t sound nearly as scary as almost bleeding out twice, but he didn’t want to mention that to a friend that already seemed at her wits end. Unfortunately, he knew he was hardly following along.
“You’ll have to slow down just a bit. What was that about burning?”
"Human fat. The tachonis do magic rituals using candles made from their own relative's body fat. Have you seen how skinny they are? How many people do you think would be in one candle?" She shuddered. "Hey, you think we could get them in trouble trouble with your grandmother for appropriating candle feast or something?"
She let out a long breath full of small, nervous chuckles. "That was the night Hal and Bolaire met the end of a god and may have kind of killed the Lady of a Sundered House. Meanwhile I was having visions of death angels. We both thought our nights were crazier, and then we learned."
Wicander immediately put a hand over his mouth as he tried not to retch. “Oh, that’s awful! No no no, don’t- I don’t wanna know that. That’s- eeeugh!” He shook his head, earrings dangling, catching the light and refracting it against his jaw. “Truly the grossest House. Why is all the icky stuff Tachonis stuff?”
“And I swear the Sundered Houses are doing this on purpose—making so many moves that it’s impossible to keep track of everything, much less tell it all to each other. Teor’s brother got turned into a statue! You’d think that’d be the first thing I’d bring up, but everything is such a jumbled mess that I can’t even begin organizing the information by importance.”
“There you are, dear one,” Talon murmured, seeing where Wic was sprawled on the forest floor. Rather than tripping on a branch or anything of that nature, he seemed as if he wasn’t trying to get up, so much as he was trying to hide away. Arms did not pin him down, as perhaps he expected this night, but instead they wrapped their arms around him to haul him to his feet, allowing him to lean against their lithe frame until they were back to the hut the druid called home. Once there, Wic was deposited onto a pile of pillows and furs as Talon took a ladle to fill a cup with water from their stores. “Rest and drink. I will get you something to eat in a moment if you’re hungry.” (allexandrianrejects) ((the couple ever finally interacting on screen))
Wicander protested as Talon scooped him up from where he’d tumbled to the forest floor, insistent that he needed but a moment to recover himself. But the sparks wouldn’t clear from his eyes. He stumbled blindly alongside them, trusting they’d take him somewhere safe while he tried to calm his racing heart.
It wasn’t until he was lying down that his vision finally cleared. To his dismay, he was right back where he’d started the night. “I’m sorry Talon, I was feeling perfectly fine until suddenly—the dizziness again.” It was something he had mentioned once before, though he had chalked it up to not eating enough that morning. He couldn’t use that same excuse this time, though it wasn’t like he had a real explanation to offer. “It’s…something that comes and goes. Inconvenient. I’m sorry it interrupted our fun.” He didn’t want to worry them. Everyone worried, they offered advice and treated him like glass for a time until they realized he really was fine like he said. He had hoped to avoid that conversation here, but as he sipped at the water offered he felt he owed them some sort of reasoning as to why he’d ruined their night.
@candle-wic
Do you mind if I keep you company on your watch tonight? I can’t sleep.
I don't mind at all, Wic.
Thank you. It’s nice to have your solid presence at my side.
…Do you ever find this difficult?
You are very welcome.
Belive it or not, I actually do find this difficult sometimes.
Really? You’re always so- I don’t know, maybe I’m just not paying enough attention. You just always seem like you know what you’re doing. Strength in your convictions, and what have you.
I suppose maybe I’m feeling a little lacking, in the whole “knowing what I’m doing” department.
